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GRUACH  AND  BRITAIN'S 
DAUGHTER 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS 
BY  THE   SAME   AUTHOR 

THE  GATE  OF  SMARAGDUS.    1904. 
CHAMBERS  OF  IMAGERY.    First  Series.    1907. 
CHAMBERS  OF  IMAGERY.   Second  Series.    1912. 
A  VISION  OF  GIORGIONE.    1910. 
CONTRIBUTION'S  TO  AN  ANNUAL  OF  NEW 

POETRY.    1917. 
KING  LEAR'S  WIFE  AND  OTHER  PLAYS.    1920. 


GRUACH  •  AND  •  BRITAIN'S 
DAUGHTER  *V  TWO  PLAYS 
BY  •  GORDON  •  BOTTOMLEY 


BOSTON 

SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


THE  BINDING  OF  THIS  VOLUME  IS  FROM 
A    DESIGN    BY    MR.    CHARLES    RICKETTS 


Copyrighted  in  U.S.A.  192 1  by  Cordon  BoltomUy. 


GRUACH 

PLAY  IN  TWO  SCENES 


TO  C.  H.  S.  AND  C.  S.  R. 

]\T  OW,  when  my  life  is  more  than  half  consumed, 
J-  V   And  my  yet  steady  flame  gathers  its  force 
More  to  aspire  before  the  vague,  last  flare 
{That  lightens  nothing)  gutters  in  the  night-wind, 
Upon  the  midway  ridge  of  my  short  days 
I  turn;  I  would  not  ktimu  what  is  to  come, 
Down  the  far  slope  of  the  withdrawing  wave; 
I  would  remain  at  this  conspiring  height, 
Whose  ujnuard  motion  seemed  my  own,  and  keep, 
Keep  mine  the  swift  discoveries  of  life, 
The  passionate,  the  unexpected  moments 
That  now,  as  I  look  back,  are  all  I  have, 
All  I  have  longed  for,  all  I  have  to  lose, 
All,  all  I  shall  regret  when  I  must  leave  them. 

And  first,  after  the  daily  use  of  love 
That  is  not  to  be  told,  the  common  joy 
Of  life  shared  with  the  natural,  earth-born  forces, 
I  think  of  him  who  from  Italian  seed 
Was  born  an  English  matt,  him  who  renewed 
By  moody  English  ways,  at  English  tension, 
For  English  uuillumined  hearts  like  mine, 
The  lost  Italian  vision,  the  passionate 
Vitality  of  art  more  rich  than  life, 
More  real  than  the  day's  reality. 
Before  I  knew  his  name  and  his  great  acts 
Of  true  creation  done  on  God's  behalf, 
Within  himself  the  assurance  of  a  God, 
I  lived  in  the  stale  darkness  of  my  kind; 
And  it  was  his  sole  deed  that  I  have  known 
The  power  of  loveliness,  the  power  of  truth, 
And of  imagination  that  concentres 
Life  into  more  than  one  life  ever  gave. 
By  nameless  lovers,  lovers  with  great  names, 
By  fabulous  ladies  dreamed  and  almost  seen, 
By  Dante's  lost  love  Beatrice  and  his  own 
2 


More  wonderful  and  more  desireable 
Lost  love  Elizabeth,  created  once 
For  him,  and  once  by  him  in  recollection; 
And  by  his  rarer  light;  I  learned  to  live. 

The  first  amazement  as  of  a  spirit  seen, 
When  in  the  arts  that  man  has  perfected 
Beauty  is  known,  is  not  maintained.    The  past 
Must  be  resumed  in  each  of  us,  to  each 
Deliver  its  attainment  and  its  hope; 
But  every  man  to  his  own  generation 
Nearer  approaches  than  to  father  or  child, 
And  apprehends  more  intimately  by  it 
The  reality  of  vision  and  life;  and  it 
More  certainly  divines  the  truth  of  him: 
And  so,  when  I  had  turned  the  last  bright  page 
Of  that  dead  painter  of  a  keener  life, 
And  felt  that  the  dark  mirror  of  his  vision 
Was  broken,  and  knew  I  should  not  see  again 
Any  new  shape  of  that  mysterious  beauty 
( Which  by  a  heart-ache  still  brings  back  my  youth), 
I  kindled  with  more  life  because  I  came 
On  the  same  miracle  of  enhanced  life 
Continued  and  renewed  in  acts  of  yours. 

Upon  the  Dial  of  the  vanished  Vale 

Were  counted  chosen  fortunate  hours  alone; 

A  nd  there  began  the  invention  and  the  mood 

That  by  the  shapes  of  colour  and  air  and  light 

Has  made  a  life  men  might  begin  to-day, 

Yet  fit  for  a  lovelier  earth  that  is  to  be, 

Out  of  the  England  that  is  here  and  now — 

A  region  better  than  dreams,  a  dawn-lit  state, 

Wherein  the  daily  Greece  Theocritus 

Through  his  half-open  door  in  the  same  way 

Shews  us  is  mingled  with  succeeding  life, 

Siena,  Avalon,  and  the  Western  place 

Where  Deirdre  learned  to  move  and  look  at  men, 


And  with  the  garden  of  living  ladies  where 

A  silvery  bearer  of  a  cyclamen 

Looked  at  her  painter  and  shall  be  remembered 

With  the  Gioconda;  and  in  this  state  I  found 

Assurance  that  romance  is  wisdom  and  truth. 

And  in  those  vanished  hours  of  the  rich  Vale 

One  in  whose  birth  England  and  Italy 

A  second  time  had  kissed  was  also  known; 

One  who  received  my  first  enchanter 's  force 

Of  vision  to  create  a  keener  life; 

In  whom  the  knowledge  of  materials 

Leads  to  design  as  form  leads  into  colour. 

Wherever  human  days  and  acts  have  burned 

By  breeding  and  great  race  to  salient  height 

Of  suffering  or  rapture  or  quivering 

Domination  they  are  subject  to  his  mitid: 

He  has  made  manifest  the  shape  of  Silence: 

By  beings  that  never  were,  centaur  and  sphinx-, 

He  has  made  clear  the  composition  of  life, 

The  nature  of  vitality :  and  by  him 

I  have  understood  that  I  desire  from  art 

And  from  creation  not  repeated  things 

Of  every  day,  not  the  mean  content 

Or  discontent  of  average  helpless  souls, 

Not  passionate  abstraction  of  loveliness, 

But  unmatched  moments  and  exceptional  deeds 

And  all  that  cannot  happen  every  day 

And  rare  experience  of  earth's  chosen  men 

In  which  I  cannot,  by  my  intermitting 

And  narrow  powers,  share  unless  they  are  held 

Sublimated  and  embodied  in  beauty. 

Dear  Masters,  in  the  acknowledgement  of  debt 
There  may  be  grace;  but  not  enough  for  payment. 
I  write  your  names  before  this  meditation 
On  an  old  theme,  a  birthright  of  our  race, 
Because  I  have  put  therein  all  that  is  mine; 
And  so  I  give  it  to  you,  as  I  would  give 
4 


All  that  is  mine  to  you,  recognisance 
Of  what  I  owe  and  have  no  means  to  pay. 
Yon  love  the  arts  so  well  that  yoit  preserve, 
Within  your  treasure-house  that  seems  to  rise 
In  clarity  and  in  tranquillity 
Above  the  impermanence  of  time,  true  works 
That  still  are  less  than  those  you  do  yourselves . 
Content  me  by  receiving  this  among  them 
For  your  own  sake  and  that  of  certain  dead — 
And,  most,  for  the  two  friends  of  Pay-agon 
Who  sought  perfection  and  achieved  far  more; 
And  by  my  poem's  admittance  recognise 
The  duty  that  I  offer,  I  too  your  friend. 

August  1 6th,  19 1 9. 


PERSONS: 

Conan,  Thane  of  Fortingall. 

An  Envoy  of  the  King  of  Scotland. 

Domhnal,  a  steward. 

Two  Serving-Men. 

A  Boy. 

Morag,  The  Lady  of  Fortingall,  Conan's  mother. 

Fern,  her  daughter. 

Gruach,  her  niece. 

Marget. 

Two  Young  Serving-Women. 

A  Kitchen-Girl. 

The  scene  is  laid  in  Scotland  in  the  early  Middle- 
Ages. 


GRUACH 

SCENE  I. 

The  scene  is  the  hall  of  a  small  black  stone  castle 
in  the  North  of  Scotland.  In  the  back  wall  are 
round-arched  folding  doors  to  the  right,  above 
which  a  large  bell  hangs;  to  the  left  is  a  narrow, 
tall,  round-topped  doorway  of  a  staircase  that 
curves  upward  out  of  sight.  High  above  these 
doors  an  arcade  of  short  thin  pillars  and  smalt, 
round-topped  arches  runs  from  left  to  right. 
In  the  right  wall,  toward  the  back,  is  a  low 
doorway  of  a  descending  stair;  along  this  wall, 
from  front  to  back,  stands  a  heavy  table  with 
accompanying  benches.  In  the  left  wall  is  a 
stone  fireplace  with  pillared  cowl;  a  log  fire 
burns  on  the  hearth,  and  two  lighted  torches 
are  set  in  rings  that  project  from  the  wall 
above;  there  is  a  curtained  recess  between  the 
fireplace  and  the  back  wall. 

Morag,  the  Lady  of  Fortingall,  a  gaunt 
old  woman,  sits  in  a  great  chair  at  the  far  side 
of  the  hearth,  warming  her  hands  and  listening 
to  Domhnal,  her  steward,  an  old  man  who 
stands  near.  Conan,  her  son,  the  Thane  of 
Fortingall,  sits  at  the  near  side  of  the  hearth 
in  another  chair,  averted  from  her,  whetting  a 
hunting  spear  with  a  small  stone.  In  front  of 
the  fire,  but  at  some  little  distance  from  it, 
Fern,  her  daughter,  sits  on  a  stool,  stitching 
7 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

at  a  heavy  -white  robe  covered  with  a  meander- 
ing, close  pattern  in  gold:  the  robe  is  long  and 
ample  and  spreads  over  an  empty  stool  that 
stands  still  further  from  the  fire. 

DOMHNAL. 

THE  meat  is  killed:  the  veal  is  blooded:  the 
trout  are  caught. 
Lambs  are  too  young  to  kill,  so  four  were  needed. 
The  mead-vats  are  well  filled. 
And  now  the  women  make   ready  to   bake   all 
night.  .   .   . 

Morag. 

Then  stop  such  waste  of  fire :  send  to  the  village 

And  tell  the  bonders'  wives  that  every  house 

Must  send  a  basketful  of  loaves  at  dawn 

For  their  lord's  wedding-feast.  What  else  is  to  do? 

DOMHNAL. 

Before  we  sleep  the  stables  should  be  garnished 
For  the  guests'  horses:  some  ride  early,  and  some 
Ride  earlier  :  to-morrow  will  be  too  late, 
And  we  must  work  with  torches.   .   .  . 

Morag. 

Waste,  waste,  and  never  any  forethought  is  here. 
Let  one  sit  up  till  midnight:  then  the  moon 
Will  join  him  and  work  with  him,  and  save  the 
torch. 

DOMHNAL. 

The  bridal  chamber  is  arrayed  and  ready ; 
New  rushes  mixed  with  lavender  are  strewn  there ; 
But  Marget  bids  me  say  she  waits  to  know 
How  many  chambers  for  the  morrow's  guests 
8 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

She  must  prepare,  and  when  you  will  give  out 
The  linen  for  the  beds. 

Morag. 

When  there  is  April  weather  and  a  moon 

Our  neighbours  will  not  think  of  sleeping  here. 

They  will  ride  home. 

Fern. 

Mother,  we  shall  be  scorned  in  all  the  glens 
If  high-born  women  are  sent  out  from  our  gate 
To  ride  in  festal  clothes  put  on  to  grace  us 
Across  Sithchallion  on  a  frosty  night, 
Or  the  Black  Mountain. 

Morag,  to  Domhnal. 
Our  guests  will  all  ride  home. 
Bar  the  great  door  for  the  night  when  you  go 
down. 

Domhnal,  hesitantly. 
The  Lady  Gruach  .  .  . 

Morag. 

Is  she  still  out?   Then  leave  it. 
Domhnal  makes  an  obeisance  and  goes 
out  by  the  low  doorway  in  the  right 
wall. 
What  kind  of  half  man  have  I  borne  and  suckled 
Who  lets  his  bride  upon  his  wedding-eve 
Go  out  alone  and  loiter  in  secret  glades 
And  lonely  uplands?   Son,  will  you  let  your  wife 
Run  wild  before  the  wind  of  her  will  like  this? 

Conan. 

My  cousin  Gruach,  when  she  first  grew  tall, 
Forbade  that  I  should  follow  her,  or  watch 
9 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

Toward  what  refuges  of  forest  and  sky 
Unbearable  moods  might  take  her;  and  she  said 
She  needed  that  escape  from  kinsfolk's  minds. 
So  why  should  I  haunt  her  last  free  maiden  night 
More  than  a  hundred  nights  of  other  Springs? 
When  a  most  beautiful  woman  can  be  wearied 
And  burdened  by  a  girl's  dearest  delight 
Of  stitching  herwedding-kirtle  and  with  spun  gold 
Adding  glory  to  glory  for  her  own  shoulders, 
Will  sight  of  a  patient  bridegroom  bring  her  ease? 

Fern. 

She  wrought  all  day,  till,  when  the  evening  sun 
Was  in  the  elder-tree  and  a  thrush  sang  there, 
She  asked  me  if  I  could  sit  still  for  ever, 
And  said  that  she  must  go. 
You  are  not  wise,  Mother,  to  marry  her  now: 
Her  thoughts  are  not  with  us,  she  is  not  ours. 
Last  night,  soon  after  midnight,  I  awoke 
To  a  sense  of  light,  to  a  light  held  in  the  air: 
She  stood  above  me  like  a  chill,  pale  pillar. 
I  sat  up,  but  she  did  not  notice  me: 
Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  something  above  my  brow. 
"  Will  you  not  let  me  alone?"  she  said  so  softly 
It  drew  my  tears:   "  I  am  not  yours"  she  said. 
"  I  shall  be  taken  from  you  if  you  persist; 
I  cannot  think  myself  into  your  lives 
For  ever;  I  cannot  breathe  your  little  air. 
Where  is  the  door?   There  must  be  a  way  out : 
Will  you  not  shew  it  to  me?  " 
That  pitiful,  unnatural  gentleness 
Changed  her  to  something  so  unlike  herself 
I  shivered  and  could  not  stop:  and  when  she  left  me 
I  dared  not  follow  or  move,  for  I  had  heard 
That  if  sleep-walkers  are  wakened  they  may  die. 
10 


GRUACH 

I  found  her  lying  uncovered  on  her  bed 

In  the  early  morning ;  she  knew  not  why,  she  said, 

For  she  had  never  left  it  in  the  night. 

Disquiet  that  thus  lights  up  dark  places  of  being 

And  parts  the  uneasy  body  from  the  mind 

Is  surely  a  dreadful  force  best  left  unstirred  : 

Is  it  not  then  a  cause 

That  you  should  more  examine  what  you  are 

doing? 
She  never  wandered  in  the  night  before. 

Morag,  who  has  been  counting  intently  on  her 

fingers  and  gazing  before  her. 
Can  two  young  women   of  blood  be  afraid   of 

marriage? 
Her  brooding  and  your  shyness  are  too  much  nxed 
On  the  occurrences  of  a  single  day. 
Whatever  joy  or  sorrow  the  morrow  stirs, 
The  day  after  to-morrow  there  will  return 
This  old  still  life  of  duty,  and  Gruach  next 
Will  weep  that  nothing  is  changed.   Her  mother  s 

lands  .  . 

March  with  your  father's:  they  must  be  joined 

again. 
Her  father  was  of  dead  King  Kenneth  s  breed, 
And  though  her  line  is  dispossessed,  she  is  yet 
Royal  in  some  men's  minds,  heiress  of  peril 
But  also  of  great  chance ;  and  this  my  son 
Shall  take  and  make  his  own. 

Conax.  . 

Yes,  mother.    My  cousin  Gruach  is  my  friend: 
She  knows  I  shall  not  be  too  stern  or  strict, 
And  that  I  understand  her  uneasy  ways 
And  how  to  let  her  alone  when  she's  unhappy. 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

Since  all  her  hunted  kindred  were  put  down 
And  we  have  sheltered  her,  her  fief  and  ours 
Have  been  so  fortunately  governed  as  one 
That  this  must  be  continued.    And,  sister  Fern, 
If  her  fair  virginal  life  is  in  some  danger 
From  men  of  the  new  king's  house,  is  it  not  wise 
She  should  be  covered  by  our  quieter  name, 
Disguised  in  our  reputed  loyalty? 
You  are  too  eager  in  your  sympathy 
To  see  my  mother's  wisdom.  .  .  . 

The  great  door  opens  from  without. 

Morag. 

Hush,  Conan;  she  is  here.    Be  short  with  her. 

Gruach  enters  and  closes  the  door  behind 
her.  She  is  tall  and  large-framed, 
with  firm,  soft  contours  and  features 
and  a  calm  expression:  she  moves 
and  speaks  with  unconscious  deliber- 
ateness:  her  thick  sleek  yellow  hair 
falls  on  each  side  of  her  face  and  is 
bunched  at  intervals  with  knots  of 
green  ribbon:  she  carries  a  great 
tangle  of  Spring  wild  flowers  in  the 
lap  of  her  green  gown  caught  up  with 
one  hand.    Morag  continues. 

Girl,  you  are  out  too  late:  look  better  to  it. 

Y«our  kirtle  is  wet:-  yettr  shoes- are  dean:    you 
have  been  barefoot. 

A  barefoot  bride  is  our  shame. 


Gruach. 

Will  you  still  chide  me?  It  is  my  last  night. 

Yes,  yes,  chide  me  once  more,  tell  me  my  faults, 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

And  satisfy  your  instinct;  for  to-morrow 
I  shall  become  a  wedded  woman  like  you, 
And  wedded  women  take  each  other's  part. 

Fern. 

Supper-time  is  long  past:  we  did  not  wait. 
Tell  Ferdan  he  may  set  your  supper  now. 
Where  have  you  been  so  long? 

Gruach. 

I  cannot  eat  to-night:  let  that  pass  too. 
I  went  to  lose  myself;  I  found  the  Spring. 
See,  how  a  little  sweetness  has  beguiled  me: 
These  foolish  things  looked  up  at  me.  .  .  . 

She  spills  her  lap-full  of  flowers  over 
Fern's  embroidery. 

Fern. 

O,  cousin,  you  hurt — your  carelessness  will  not 

count 
How  much  still  love  I  have  put  into  your  gown. 
Green  sap  and  petal  dust  will  stain  it  for  ever. 
The  tissue  was  pure;  look  here,  and  here,  and  be 

sorry. 

Gruach,  bitterly. 

Ah,  nothing  can  mar  the  gown  of  a  happy  bride. 
I  can  only  wear  it  once ;  it  is  fresh  enough  for  that ; 
And  yellow  and  yellow  on  gold  will  never  show. 
I  hate  all  yellow  things, 

And  most  the  yellowness  of  Springtide  life — 
Yellow  and  yellow,  cowslip,  crocus  and  primrose ; 
Daffodil  and  jasmine,  yellow  and  yellow. 
These  commoners  of  Spring  put  me  in  mind 
13 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

That  now  the  darker  flower  which  matches  me 
In  loneliness,  a  purple  hellebore, 
Should  also  have  returned  to  Glen  of  Shadows. 
I  came  through  Kestrel  Wood  and  over  the  ridge, 
Longing  for  it  as  I  have  longed  for  a  friend; 
But,  though  I  have  fostered  it  year  after  year, 
At  last  it  has  not  come  to  me  with  Spring. 

Fern. 

Will  you  never,  never  forget  the  dreadful  flower 
Which  in  our  childhood  made  me  sick  with  fear? 
You  loved  it  for  that  fear. 
It  is  the  very  colour  of  poison  and  sin, 
Of  bruises  and  dead  men's  lips.     Why  will  you 
seek  it? 

Gruach. 

For  its  sullen,  angry  beauty  and  evil  intent. 

I  love  to  feel  it  would  kill  me  if  it  could, 

And  that  I  need  not  let  it  unless  I  wish. 

When  a  fierce  bird  is  beautiful  it  is  then 

More  beautiful  by  its  fierceness;    and  that  rare 

flower 
Is  thus  more  beautiful  by  its  wickedness. 

Morag. 

Come,  bride  in  the  bud,  you  are  in  my  care  to- 
night; 

You  must  hasten  to  your  chamber  and  change 
your  skirts, 

That  are  wet  half  way  to  the  knee,  or  the  wife's 
new  wisdom 

Will  not  preserve  you  from  too  much  fever  to- 
morrow. 

14 


GRUACH 

Fern,  breaking  the  thread  with  which  she  has  been 

stitching. 
Stay,  cousin.   Your  gown  is  finished;  take  it  with 

you. 

Gruach. 

Sweet  cousin,  I  have  been  wayward  and  unkind 
To  leave  you  alone  to  labour  on  this  monotony; 
Let  it  remain  a  moment  until  I  have  changed, 
I  will  finish  my  side  as  well. 

Fern.  It  is  finished. 

Gruach,  kneeling  by  Fern  impulsively. 

You  darling  workfellow  and  playfellow, 

And  motherkin  and  rosy  bedfellow 

Of  long  ago,  pardon  my  little  hard  heart. 

You  take  our  frets  and  burdens  on  yourself, 

And  never  tell  us  until  we  are  too  late 

For  everything  except  to  be  forgiven. 

I  wish  you  could  so  lighten  all  my  task: 

Your  love  brings  strength,  and  it  will  be  your 

love 
That  presses  and  nestles  about  me  when  I  wear  it. 
When  I  have  stript  myself  to-morrow  night 
It  shall  be  cherished  unblemished  for  your  bridal. 

Fern. 

To-morrow  I  follow  a  bride  for  the  third  time; 
And  "  Thrice  a  bridesmaid  and  never  a  bride  " 
say  gossips. 

Gruach  starts  abruptly  to  her  feet,  and, 
stuffing  the  golden  gown  into  a  tight 
bundle  under  her  arm,  goes  to  the 
staircase. 

15 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

Wild  thing,  what  have  I  said  to  grieve  you  now? 
You  are  crushing  it;  you  are  cruel  to  crush  it; 

cruel. 
It  will  only  look  like  dirty  linen  now. 

Gruach,  turning  at  the  foot  of  the  stair. 
It  is  too  heavy:  it  is  as  heavy  as  fetters: 
Its  weight  will  sleek  it  when  I  put  it  on. 
And  none  will  want  to  wear  it  after  me. 

She  disappears  at  the  turn  of  the  stair: 

presently  she  passes  from  left  to  right 

within  the  arcade  above. 

Fern. 

I  had  better  leave  my  door  ajar  to-night. 

Morag. 

She  will  lie  still  to-night:  she  has  tired  herself. 

It  is  over:  she  is  spent:  she  will  submit. 

She  can  do  nothing  more  before  to-morrow; 

And  when  to-morrow  is  here  she  must  go  forward 

From  station  to  station   of  hallowing  and  lost 

hopes, 
Checked  by  the  guests'  cold  eyes  if  she  would 

double. 
And  no  one  will  come  here  who  would  listen  to 

her. 

Fern. 

She  could  only  tell  of  me  that  I  would  love  her 
And  be  her  very  sister.    But  no  one  will  come. 
The  bell  over  the  door  sounds  once,  a  deep 
sonorous  note.    The  women  look  at 
each  other.   Again  it  sounds  once. 

Morag. 

Who  rides  so  late? 

16 


GRUACH 
Fern.  Surely  wedding  guests. 

CONAN. 

Nay,  there  is  but  one  horse:  I  heard  its  feet 
While  Gruach  was  saying  something  just  now. 
Domhnal  enters  by  the  door  on  the  right 
and  opens  the  great  door. 

"The  King's  Envoy,  outside. 
I  ride  in  the  King's  name:  in  the  King's  name 
I  require  men's  service.     Whose  is  this  strong 
house? 

BUJMHNAL. 

This  is  the  house  of  the  Thane  of  Fortingall. 

Envoy. 

I  ride  in  the  King's  name  on  an  errand  of  weight : 

I  ask  the  Thane  of  Fortingall  for  a  man 

To  find  me  the  speediest  road  to  Inverness. 

DOMHNAL. 

You  are  far  from  any  road  to  Inverness. 

Envoy. 

Then  bring  me  to  your  lord. 

Domhnal  opens  the  door  wider.  There 
enters  a  handsome  hawk-faced young 
man  zvith  a  fighter's  month  and  jaw. 
He  wears  a  leathern  riding-dress :  in 
the  front  of  his  cap  a  purple  fiozver is 
fastened. 

Domhnal,  approaching  Conan. 
Sir,  a  man  of  the  King's  asks  speech  with  you. 
He  goes  out  to  the  right  as  Conan  comes 
forward  to  meet  the  Envoy. 

17  c 


GRUACH 

CONAN. 

You  are  belated,  Sir: 

Your  horse  has  foundered,  or  you  have  missed 
your  way? 

Envoy. 

I  am  an  Envoy,  Thane,  of  my  great  kinsman 
Duncan,  the  King  of  Scotland,  of  all  Scotland, 
To  Thorfinn,  the  Jarl  of  Caithness,  a  threatening 

man. 
I  ought  to  be  in  Inverness  with  dawn, 
But  twilight  overtook  me  in  strange  country. 

CONAN. 

You  have  ridden  a  county  wide  of  your  straight 

way; 
But  every  Northerly  track  will  take  you  there, 
And  the  full  moon  will  serve  you  many  hours 
If  you  push  on  at  once. 

Envoy. 

The  wind  has  veered,  good  Thane,  to  the  North 

again ; 
The  mounting  snow-packs  clot  in  the  steely  sky; 
Your  moon  is  buried;  young  Spring  will  die  of 

exposure. 
This  is  no  night  to  ride  in,  no  light  to  ride  in, 
When  the  rider  is  lost  already. 
I  must  desire  your  courtesy  and  duty 
To  lodge  my  horse  and  me  till  morning  comes. 

CONAN. 

I  could  have  wished  it  so  ... .  Yet  on  this  eve  .... 
Our  attention  lies  elsewhere  ....  There  are  other 

guests  .... 
The  occasion  is  not  common  .... 
1 8 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

Morag,  who  has  been  watching  the  Envoy  anx- 
iously. 

My  son  forgets : 

When  the  King  asks,  it  is  our  right  to  give. 

'You  come,  young  sir,  on  the  edge  of  a  bustling 
hour 

Of  some  festivity,  that  already  checks 

Our  poor  ability  and  exercise 

Of  hospitality:  at  dawn  more  guests 

Need  undivided  honour,  but  until"  tken 

What  we  can  give  is  yours. 

Is  great  news  in  the  bud  that  you  ride  so  hard? 

Such  urgency  might  mean  some  vile  revolt 

Threatens  King  Duncan's  blessed,  heart-easing 
peace? 

Envoy. 

I  go  to  tell  Caithness  that  the~Kmg's  wife 
Has  borne  a  son,  and  to  require  of  him 
An  oath  of  loyalty  to  the  child  Malcolm. 
His  disaffection  has  not  prospered  lately, 
He  is  bruised  and  in  recoil,  and  it  is  thought 
That  if  he  is  confirmed  in  what  he  holds 
He  will  consent  to  grant  to  a  helpless  child 
A  word  he  is  too  sore  to  speak  for  a  king. 

Morag. 

Do  you  believe  he  will? 

Envoy.  Not  I. 

Morag.  Nor  I. 

Yet  this  child's  weight    may    hold   the   King's 

throne  firm. 
I  trust  our  lady,  the  Queen,  is  well  recovered. 
~  i9 


G  R  U  A  C  H 


Envoy. 

It  is  all  men's  grief  that  she  is  not  recovered. 

She  lies  most  piteously  indifferent 

To  life  and  child :  she  wastes,  she  is  almost  white : 

She  cannot  mount  the  throne-steps.    Her  leech 

says 
She  cannot  safely  bear  another  child. 

Con  an,  softly  to  Fern,  as  she  gathers  together  her 

embroidery  implements. 
Tell  Gruach  there 's  a  King's  man  in  the  house : 
Bid  her  keep  to  her  chamber  until  he  is  gone. 

Morag. 

I  never  saw  her:  she  is  not  one  of  us. 

Her  foreign  breed  is  plainly  too  light  and  poor 

To  make  a  Scotish  mother:    a  Scotish  King 

Should   wed    in  his  own  mountains,  where  the 

women 
Are  prideful  and  hard  and   quickened.     I  have 

heard 
She  has  some  beauty  and  birth ;  but  can  a  stranger 
Bear  a  right  king  for  us? 

Envoy.  She  is  a  most  sweet  lady, 

So  excellent  in  steadfastness  and  grace 
That  she  is  fit  to  be  a  Scotish  woman 
And  Queen  of  Scotish  men. 

Conan,  softly  to  Fern.  Go:  go. 

Envoy,  continuing.  She  is  tall, 

And  moves  as  if  she  walked  in  her  own  mountains ; 

20 


GRUACH 

She  is  gleaming  pale,  a  daughterof  snow-lipt  seas, 

A  golden  lady  .... 

He  falters  and  pauses,  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  staircase  arch,  7vhereGRVACH  has 
appeared.  She  is  zvearing  the  zvhite 
and  gold  gown;  her  hair  is  knotted 
up  about  her  ears  and  covered  with  a 
narrow,  white-flowered  veil  of  gold 
tissue  held  in  place  by  a  flashing 
circlet  and  falling  among  the  folds  of 
her  train.  As  she  stands  on  the  first 
step,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  Envoy,  the 
gold  of her  gown  flickers  in  the  waver- 
ing torchlight, so  that  she  seems  to  hover 
in  a  light  of  her  own  by  contrast  zvith 
the  moving  shadows  of  the  gloomy  hall 
and  the  sombre  apparel  of  the  others. 
Fern,  who  has  started  to  her  feet  at 
Conan's  second  bidding,  meets  her  at 
the  foot  of  the  stair. 

Fern. 

Cousin,  what  have  you  done — 

You  have  worn  it  too  soon,  you  are  fey; 

You  will  bring  ill-fortune  on  us.  .   .  . 

Envoy. 

Lady,  I  see  that  I  must  be  unwelcome, 

And  that  you  are  ready  for  friends,  not  strangers, 

now. 
I  am  urged  to  this  intrusion  by  my  service, 
Which  is  the  King's,  and  the  strict  terms  of  it. 
Your  house-folk  have  received  me ;  do  not  rebuke 

them — 
I  have  laid  the  King's  will  heavily  on  them— 
21 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

B  ut  add  your  kindness  to  their  tolerance 
O  f  my  unpardoned  coming. 

Gruach. 

My  lord,  in  that  you  are  come,  you  are  well  come. 

I  am  not  mistress  here  until  to-morrow; 

Yet,  if  I  may,  I  will  add  my  share  of  grace 

To  greet  you  earnestly,  as  I  should  for  a  king. 

Envoy. 

Lady,  I  thank  you.    I.  .  .  . 

Gruach. 

I  am  unfortunate  to  have  missed  your  entrance: 

I  have  not  heard  your  name. 

Envoy. 

I  am  nephew  and  next  of  kin  to  the  Thane  of 

Glamis, 
Old   Sinel,  the  King's  cousin:    Macbeth  is  my 

name. 

Gruach,  to  Morag. 

I  knew  there  was  a  quality  in  this  knight: 

We  are  required  to  lodge  it  suitably. 

The  chamber-woman  is  idle  and  sluggish  again  ; 

There  is  not  one  guest-room  swept  or  curtained 

>'et' 
Although  my  meinie  of  maidens  should  come  soon 

To  change  their  gowns  there.    Would  it  not  be 

well 

To  put  him  into  the  bridal-chamber  to-night? 

None  other  is  ready,  none  is  fragrant  enough: 

I  have  looked  at  it  but  now,  it  is  strange  and  fair. 

Marget  shall  deck  it  anew  ere  the  feast  is  over; 

And  I'll  array  for  church  in  my  old  cell. 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

Morag,  dryly,  and  bowing  curtly  to  the  Envoy. 
A  bride  must  have  her  way. 

Conan,  to  the  Envoy. 

What  have  you  done  with  your  horse?  Where  is 
it  now? 

Envoy. 

At  the  ring  in  your  outer  gate. 

Conan. 

I  will  send  a  man  to  stable  it. 

Envoy.  ,  .     . 

Your   pardon:    I  must  go  down  to  my  patient 

friend  ; 

Or  his  nut-brown   eyes  will  not  meet  mine  to- 
morrow, 

Our  journey  will  be  longer. 

Conan.  . , 

I'll  go  with  you:  you  do  not  know  the  stable. 
Mother,  shall  I  unlock  the  oat-bin  for  him? 

He  takes  the  torch  from  one  of  the  rings 
in  the  left  wall. 

I  will  go  before  you. 

s  He  opens  the  door. 

Will  you  come  with  me  now? 

Envoy. 

I  thank  you,  Thane,  and  follow. 

J  They  go  out. 

Conan,  outside. 
A  sudden  frost  and  a  hard. 
23 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

The  sweat  in  your  horse's  coat  will  be  like  chain- 
mail. 
What  kind  of  man  are  you, 
To  leave  a  good  horse  out  in  a  night  like  this, 
And  call  yourself  his  friend? 

The  great  door  closes  behind  them. 
Gruach  lias  remained  standing  motion- 
lessly,  facing  the  place  whence  the 
Envoy  spoke  to  her,  her  eyes  dmvn- 
cast,  her  face  tranquil  as  if  she  is 
inwardly  absorbed  in  an  entrancing 
thought. 
Morag  approaches  her. 

MORAG. 

The  wife  of  Fortingall  will  take  her  place, 
Will  she?  But  when  she  does  she  shall  feel  sharply 
The  wife  of  Fortingall  must  keep  her  place, 
And  leaveher  lord  to  welcomehandsome strangers 
And  dangerous  unknown  farers  in  the  dark. 
A  woman  wears  her  wedding-gown  but  once, 
And  there  's  a  fate  in  airing  it  too  soon ; 
The  mocking  mischief  of  your  changeling's  heart 
May  well  have  wrought  that  when  you  strip  to- 
night 
You  stripthepride  of  being  the  Lady  of  Fortingall. 
Yet  you  must  doff  it  now,  on  the  instant:  go: 
Get  you  to  bed  and  hide: 
The  stranger  must  not  see  those  eyes  again. 
He  does  not  hunt  you,  or  suspect  your  birth  ; 
But  if  he  remembers  you  by  seeing  too  long 
Your  noticeable  clothing  and  keen  gaze 
He  may  ask  questions  about  you.    Go,  I  say. 

Turning  to  Fern. 
Daughter,  tell  Ferdan  to  bring  food  and  mead — 
24 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

Not  the  old  mead — for  the  young  knight's  even- 
ing meal. 
But,  no;  I  must  go  myself  or  the  kitchen-wenches 
Will  send  up  wedding-meats  to  save  themselves 
The  grievance  of  late  work. 

She  goes  out  by  the  lozv  door  to  the  right. 

Fern. 

Dear  cousin,  will  you  not  retire 

Before  she  can  return? 

Gruach,  quietly  and  unmoving. 
Did  you  speak  to  me? 

Fern. 

My  mother  wishes  us  to  go : 
We  are  up  too  late  even  now. 
Think  of  what  the  dawn  will  bring. 

Gruach,  still  quietly. 

He  is  the  most  beautiful  man  I  have  seen  in  all 
my  life. 

Fern. 

How  can  you  say  such  a  thing? 
How  wicked  you  must  be:  I  am  afraid  of  you. 
Think  what  you  owe  to  Conan:  if  Conan  heard 
He  might  forget  the  knight  is  his  first  guest. 

Gruach,  raising  her  eyes,  but  still  quietly. 
Conan    could  not  get  near  him:    he  would  kill 
Conan. 

Fern.  , 

He  is  a  noble  man,  and  very  fair. 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

I  wish  he  would  not  go  away  so  soon : 
Something  rejoices  in  me  while  I  watch  him. 

Gruach. 

Well,  then,  grave  gentle  Fern,  he  shall  not  go. 

I'll  bid  him  to  my  marriage,  and  maybe 

He  shall  hand  you  to  church. 

Fern,  stooping. 

Look,  look;  this  little  flower  was  in  his  cap 
When  he  came  in  ;  he  doffed  it  to  you  alone, 
It  must  have  fallen  then  :  you  never  saw  it. 

Gruach,  suddenly  alert. 

His  flower?  It  is  my  colour  :    give  it  to  me. 

Fern,  kissing  the  flower  she  has  picked  up. 

No. 

I  do  what  is  asked  of  me  each  hour  of  life, 

And  you  all  take  all  I  give,  and  never  notice 

That  I  am  ever  the  one  who  must  stand  aside  ; 

And  in  their  turn  your  children  will  assume 

I  am  the  one  who  foregoes,  who  does  not  count: 

I  shall  have  nought  of  my  own  when  I  am  old. 

But  I'll  not  give  you  this. 

Gruach,  seizing  Fern's  wrist  and  twisting  it. 

But  I  will  have  it. 

Fern.  O,  you  hurt,  you  hurt: 

Let  me  alone. 

Gruach.  Not  till  you  throw  it  away. 

26 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

Fern. 

O!  O!  Oh!  Oh  .  .  .  h!  Soul  of  a  wolf,  take  it. 
She  drops  the  flower:  Gruach  releases 
her  and  stoops  to  it.  Fern  returns 
to  her  stool  by  the  fire  and  seats  her- 
self with  her  back  to  Gruach,  chafing 
her  injured  -wrist  and  pressing  it  to 
her,  her  shoulders  twitching  as  if 
with  insupportable  pain. 

Gruach,  k  is  sing  the  flower. 

Thou  thing  of  tender  substance  and  silent  life, 

The  spirit  of  thy  softness  enters  me 

When  surfaces  of  lips  and  fingers  meet 

Thy  filmy  stillnesses;   I  fear  to  press 

My  longing  to  thee  lest  I  interrupt 

The  life  I'ld  fix  for  ever  with  my  touch. 

She  fastens  the  flower  in  the  lacing  of  her 
bodice  below  her  throat. 
Lie  there ;  move  with  my  life-breath ;  ah,  look  up 
And  breathe  again  to  me  his  earlier  warmth, 
As  if  the  vital  tremor  of  his  person 
Mixed  with  my  heat  that  veins  thy  texture  now. 
Thou  hast  been  set  above  his  brow;  sink  down, 
Bring  down  to  me  his  head  in  here,  in  here. 

She  presses  her  hands  to  her  bosom. 

The  great  door  opens.  Conan  enters  with 
the  torch  and,  crossing  the  hall,  re- 
places it  in  its  ring. 

j  Conan. 

The  stable-knaves  have  waited  for  no  moon : 
The  stalls  are  trimmed,  the  bracken  is  changed 

\        already. 

27 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

Fern,  recovering  herself 'with  difficulty. 
Where  is  our  guest/ 

Conan.  He  may  come  whenever  he  chooses. 

The  Envoy  enters  by  the  great  door  and 
closes  it  behind  him. 

;  Gruach. 
My  lord  Macbeth,  I  trust  my  cousin  has  found 
A  lodging  for  your  horse  that  is  to  your  mind — 
One  worthy  of  a  life  that  has  your  love 
And  bears  a  precious  burden,  a  king's  message. 
Why  do  you  gaze  on  me  so  steadfastly, 
As  if  I  am  not  here? 

Envoy.  It  is  your  flower: 

A  spae-wife  under  a  riven,  star-lit  fir 

Gave  one  to  me  as  I  rode  out  from  Scone: 

She  said  it  opened  from  a  root  of  death, 

And  that  it  should  bring  to  me  some  kind  of 

fortune. 
1  flew  it  in  my  cap  for  death  to  see 
And  take  a  challenge  from;  and  then  forgot  it 
Somewhere  upon  my  way.  .  .  . 

Gruach. 

I  found  it  in  the  rushes  on  the  floor. 
Its  colour  spoke  to  my  heart,  I  put  it  on  : 
But  let  me  be  your  spae-wifeandbringyou fortune. 
She  loosens  the  flower. 

Envoy. 

My  flower  has  found  its  fortune:  let  it  remain. 

Gruach. 

I  have  no  fortune;  I  come  of  a  root  of  death, 

2S 


G  R   U  A  C  H 

Like  would  kill  like;  you  must  take  your  fortune 
from  me. 

Con  an  has  been  watching  uneasily  for  an 
opportunity  to  intervene.  Gruach 
holds  out  the  flower  to  the  Envoy  : 
as  their  hands  meet  and  linger  on  it 
Morag  enters  from  the  right,  followed 
by  a  serving-man  bearing  a  plate  of 
food,  utensils,  a  cup  and  a  flagon. 

Morag,  pointing  to  the  table. 

Put- it -down  there:  hasten  your  fellows  to  bed. 

He  obeys  and  goes  out  to  the  right.  Morag 
turns  to  the  Envoy. 
It  is  late,  young  lord ;  my  house  and  I  are  ashamed 
You  have  stood  so  long  in  our  gates  without  rest 

or  food : 
If  you  will  partake  such  food  as  the  hour  affords, 
It  is  set  here  for  you  to  honour  us. 
You  must  pardon  us  that  we  do  not  sit  with  you; 
A  long  and  toilsome  day  of  happiness 
Begins  for  us  ere  daylight;  and  my  slow  hands 
Must  minister  to  the  bride  before  she  sleeps. 
A  bride  who  overslept  would  be  a  jest, 
When  more  new  things  than  a  girl  has  had  in  a 

lifetime 
Are  there,  to  be  had  for  the  putting  on;  so  now 
We  must  withdraw  too  soon  for  courtesy. 
Dear  niece,  go  you  before,  and -I  will  bring 
My  neck-chains,  brooches  and   pins,  the  linen, 

the  shoes, 
And  a  cloak  to  outshine  your  gown. 

Gruach. 

I  give  you  good  night,  my  lord. 
29 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

I  am  to  be  made  a  bride  to-morrow,  my  lord : 

A  bride  claims  happiness  from  every  quarter, 

And  I  shall  be  the  happier 

If  you  will  tarry  among  my  bridal  guests, 

And  follow  me  to  church,  and  return  here. 

My  husband  will  go  hunting  after  the  service.  .  .  . 

CONAN. 

Nay,  cousin,  the  day  after. 

Gruach. 

I  ask  your  pardon,  my  lord,  the  day  after; 

That  is  a  day  the  better 

If  you  abide  with  us  and  ride  with  him. 

He  has  whetted  his  spears  and  paunchers  all  this 

day, 
AndofTersthemforthecourtesy  of  your  usage.  .  .  . 

CONAN. 

Cousin,  not  the  old  spear  with  the  bronze  blade. 

Gruach. 

If  you  can  well  endure  our  wilding  pleasures. 

Envoy. 

I  could  not  slight  the  hospitality 

Of  such  a  day1:  I  thank  you  for  your  leave 

To  ride  with  you  to  church. 

I  shall  delay  so  far.   .   .   . 

A  slight  pause. 


Gruach. 

You  are  good,  my  lord.    Good-night. 
SO 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

Envoy. 

God  find  you  a  fair  awakening. 

Gruach  passes  out  of  sight  up  the  stair. 
Domhnal  enters  from  the  right,  fastens 
the  great  door,  crosses  at  the  back  to 
the  foot  of  the  stair,  and  stands  at  the 
far  side  of  it.  He  is  followed  by  two 
serving-men,  a  boy,  an  old  zvoman 
(Marget),  and  two  sturdy  young 
women;  they  move  quickly  and  ascend 
the  stair  in  turn.  When  the  last  has 
disappeared  a  lanky  girl  enters  in  the 
wake  of  the  others,  moving  awkwardly 
in  slatternly  outgrown  clothes,  rubbing 
her  eyes,  and  snivelling.  Domhnal 
motions  to  her  to  hasten :  she  stumbles 
up  the  stair.  The  whole  train  is  seen 
to  pass  behind  the  high  arcade  from 
left  to  right.  Domhnal  turns  to 
follow. 

MORAG. 

Steward,  two  hours  before  the  first  false  light 

The  men  must  set  the  long  hall-tables  up, 

The  women  must  have  the  seething-pots  in  steam. 

DOxMHNAL,  making  a  reverence. 
Our  lady's  will  shall  be  done. 

He  passes  out  of  sight  up  the  stair. 

Morag,  to  the  Envoy. 
A  bride  has  privileges,  lord  Macbeth, 
To  be  much  considered,  and  even  more  indulged: 
We  should  accept  her  wishes  at  this  time, 
And  I  am  grieved  there  is  no  chamber  arrayed 
3i 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

For  any  guest  yet,  and  that  there  is  no  place 
Unspoken  for  at  the  bride's  board  to-morrow. 
We  must,  with  true  unwillingness,  leave  you  here 
Until  the  time  for  your  going ;  the  house  is  yours 
In  our  intention;  let  not  our  imperfection— 
That  is  of  the  hour,  not  of  our  hearts— obscure 
Our  watchful  duty  done  to  our  King. 

Envoy. 

I  thank  the  Lady  of  Fortingall  for  much. 

A  chair  by  her  hearth  and  my  cloak  about  me  will 

serve 
Until  I  can  take  the  road.    If  I  have  your  leave 
I  will  open  both  hall-door  and  stable-door, 
Let  down  the  drawbridge  and  ride  out  and  away 
Into  the  North  by  the  moon,  nor  call  your  house- 
folk 
Still  earlier  than  your  needs. 

Morag,  at  the  stair-foot. 

If  your  high  duty  sends  you  to  horse  so  soon 
We  shall  not  see  you  again : 
I  trust  your  journey  will  prosper  and  be  speedy. 
She  passes  out  of  sight  up  the  stair. 

Fern. 

The  hall  grows  colder  after  the  turn  of  midnight; 
There  are  logs  in  the  corner,  and,  if  the  frost 

should  deepen, 
You  will  find  furs  behind  the  curtain  there. 
May  you  rest  well. 

Envoy.  I  thank  your  gentle  thought. 

Fern  passes  out  of  sight  up  the  stair. 
32 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

CONAN.  , 

Have  you  saddled  a  horse  before  in  the  King  s 

yard? 
Do  you  know  the  way  of  the  bit? 

Envoy. 

A  noble  woman  is  handed  to  you  to-morrow: 
No  one  need  wish  you  joy,  you  receive  its  cause. 
Such  breeding  as  hers  should  never  be  shut  up 
In  these  harsh  walls  and  mountains  and  hard  cold 

minds; 
If  you  will  ride  with  your  matchless  wife  to  Scone 
When  I  return,  the  King  shall  hear  of  you 
And  take  you  into  his  house; 
There  you  shall  savour  unguessed  wonders  in  life 
And  come  to  advancement  too. 

Conan. 

Will  you  return  this  way? 

I  cannot  leave  the  justicing  of  my  fiefs 

That  has  lately  come  upon  me: 

The  wolves  beyond  Sithchallion  would  increase 

If  they  were  left  one  season. 

Envoy. 

Would  you  hunt  wolves  when  you  can  hunt  men, 
fierce  men? 

Conan. 

I  thought  that  courtiers  only  hunted  women. 

Envoy.  . 

L  am  your  guest,  Thane,  and  would  be  your  friend. 
Have  you  no  home  to  give  a  shrinking  woman 
Beside  this  threatening  prison? 

33  D 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

CONAN. 

I  have  a  hunting-lodge  on  the  Black  Mountain. 

Envoy. 

Carry  her  thither  from  church,  alone  and  free: 
A  woman  does  not  wed  to  gain  a  mother, 
Nor  does  a  man  to  acquire  another  sister. 

CONAN. 

Are  you  a  wedded  man? 

Envoy.  No. 

Conan.  Then  come  to  me 

For  good  advice  upon  your  wedding-eve, 
And  I  will  talk  of  what  I  know.    Good-night. 

He  passes  up  the  stair  out  of  sight:  when 
he  reaches  the  arcade  he  puts  out  his 
head  between  two  pillars,  and  watches 
the  Envoy  a  moment  with  a  face  of 
mistrust  and  dislike;  then  he  with- 
draws and  disappears. 
The  Envoy  goes  to  Conan's  chair  after 
watching  him  mount  the  stair,  turns 
it  away  from  the  fire  so  that  it  com- 
mands doojway  and  staircase,  and 
seats  himself. 

Envoy. 

Shall  I  return  this  way?  I  shall  return, 
As  a  ghost  walks  who  has  left  a  thing  undone. 
I  shall  eat  this  green  oaf's  salt  and  be  his  guest, 
His  comrade,  his  sworn  friend,  his  counsellor, 
And  sack  his  bed  for  him. 

The  mother  bee,  that  shall  out-top  her  fellows, 
34 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

Is  straitened  in  a  blind  and  deepy  cell 
As  in  this  tower  of  darkness  is  this  woman. 
A  spirit  of  power  that  shakes  my  mind  is  here 
In  this  resourceful  woman :  she  is  as  still 
As  the  white  heat  of  a  straight,  half  wrought  sword 
That  does  not  palpitate  yet  along  its  edge 
Lives  quiveringly;  she  can  indeed  conceive 
Its  sudden  and  brief  concentration  of  anger 
In  icy  tempering,  by  her  sharp  life  here; 
J^trt-stfHttess  ts  her  operative  condition. 
Nothing  falters  in  her;  nothing  shrinks. 
She  came  to  me  with  her  eyes  as  if  she  made 
Decision,  and  her  nearness  of  approach 
Was  more  immediate  than  tenderness: 
She  came  as  close  to  me  with  her  intention 
As  an  unexpected  and  convincing  thought. 
If  I  could  add  her  even  force  to  mine 
We  could  increase  life's  grasp. 

He  takes  the  flozver  from  his  jerkin. 
Dark,  unregarded  bud  of  opening  fate, 
What  is  there  now  to  do? 
Bring  to  me  no  more  fortune:  all  is  here. 
Deliver  me  from  continuing  chance:  stand  still 
In  thy  unfolding. 

Now  is  my  fortune  manifested;  dissolve, 
Turn  thou  to  fire  and  spirit  and  permeation, 
And  fix  it  here  for  ever. 

He  kisses  the  flower,  then  drops  it  deliber- 
ately into  the  fire. 

Dark  tableau  curtains  fall,  but  remain 
closed  only  long  enough  for  a  brief 
orchestral  nocturne  to  be  played. 


35 


G   R  U  A  C  H 


SCENE  II. 

The  same.  The  torches  have  burnt  out:  the  glow  of 
the  fire  is  still  great  enough  to  illumine  the 
lower  part  of  the  hall,  but  the  upper  part  and 
the  arcade  are  lost  in  darkness.  The  Envoy 
is  asleep  in  the  chair  by  the  fire,  his  head  on 
his  hand. 

Envoy,  awakening  and  sitting  up. 

Yes.    Who  is  that?  .  .  . 

Disquiet  that  is  not  sound  wakes  me  again. 

I  watch  becalmed  on  a  dark  tide  of  sleep 

That  has  no  murmurs;  yet  when  its  small  motion 

Withdraws  me  from  myself  I  hear  each  time 

A  voice  that  has  no  substance. 

Too  many  men  have  died  in  this  old  fastness; 

Or  else  the  spirits  of  its  living  cannot 

Suspend  their  eager  operation  and  sleep, 

As  bodies  that  waste  must  sleep. 

I  would  pray  to  sleep  if  I  could  dream  of  her, 

And  to  sleep  long. 

I  lose  myself  in  her  with  every  thought; 

Yet  when  I  lose  myself  in  drifts  of  sleep 

She  never  comes  as  I  could  come  to  her; 

I  only  hear  behind  a  shaking  curtain 

An  unknown  presence  wrapt  with  rumourings 

Of  urgency,  quick  flame  and  wilful  wreck. 

It  seems  she  does  not  turn  to  me  in  sleep; 

So  I'll  not  sleep  again. 

.16 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

A  small  light  passes  slowly  from  right  to 

left  along  the  high  arcade. 
The  Envoy  shifts  in 'his  chair and  handles 
his  dagger. 
A  light?   A  light?  Though  light  is  honesty, 
Yet  light  at  midnight  oftenest  shines  on  knaves, 
And  deeds  of  darkness  sometimes  seek  a  glimmer 
To  bud  and  open  in. 
Is  this  the  oaf  that  comes  to  spy  or  stab? 

Gruach  descends  the  stair,  walking  in 
her  sleep  and  bearing  a  small  and 
lighted  night-lamp;  she  is  in  her 
night-clothes,  and  tumbled,  tangled 
masses  of  hair  that  escape  from  her 
night-cap  fall  about  her  like  a  golden 
shawl. 

Envoy,  half  rising  and  huskily. 

Lady,  how  did  you  know? 

She  is  unconscious  of  him,  and,  as  she 
emerges  from  the  arch,  turns  from 
him  toward  the  place  where  he  stood 
at  their  first  meeting:  she  moves  slowly 
and  uncertainly,  and  in  bearing  and 
demeanour  reproduces  Fern's  de- 
scription of  her  appearance  on  the 
previous  night. 

Gruach,  speaking  always  in  a  veiled  hesitating 

tone. 
Beautiful  stranger,  why  are  you  here? 
I  did  but  change  my  gown, 
And  in  a  moment  you  come 
From  empty  valleys. 
O  me,  if  I  had  missed  you,  my  lord. 
37 


GRUACH 

You  are  so  kingly  made, 

Fair  and  desireable, 

I  am  drowned  in  flushes  of  gladness. 

I  would  cover  you  with  my  being  like  a  veil 

To  hide  you  from  women ; 

I  would  pour  out  my  being  over  you 

Like  faint  moonlight  that  is  yet  universal 

And  enfolds  kings  and  their  kingdoms. 

Will  you  take  me?   Will  you  not? 

Envoy,  simulating  her  tone,  but  with  repressed 
eagerness. 

Ay. 

Gruach,  as  before. 

The  light  is  going  fast. 

I  cannot  see  you  plainly  now. 

O,  where,  where  are  you  ? 

Envoy.  Here. 

Gruach.  .  . 

Say  it  again.    Tell  me  once  more,  blest  spirit. 
Repeat  thyself:  be  thine  own  mirror 
And  shew  me  twice  thy  heart. 
When  wilt  thou  take  me? 


Envoy. 


Now. 


Gruach. 

You  have  gone  farther  off.    W  ill  you  leave  mer 

Whence  do  you  speak  to  me? 

Envoy.  °ut  of  the  darkness, 

I  shall  not  leave  you  until  you  bid  me  go. 
Am  I  a  stranger  now? 


GRUACH 

I  to  myself  am  strange  ;  I  do  not  know 
My  voice,  my  stumbling  senses,  or  my  will. 
But  there  is  nothing  strange  in  you,  white  lady; 
As  in  a  welcome  dream  nothing  is  strange 
When  newly  come  delight  seems  in  a  moment 
To  have  been  ours  for  life. 
'I  have  believed  that  you  were  on  the  earth, 
As  some  believe  in  gods  they  cannot  see. 
In  this  first  hour  love  is  not  born  in  me  : 
I  recognize  ;  I  remember  ;  I  possess  : 
I  am  here  to  take  my  own. 

Gruach. 

Yes  ;  yes.    O,  do  not  cease. 
You  utter  many  words  ;  I  am  tired, 
n  catch  in  vain  at  them  as  they  gleam  past ; 
But  in  your  voice  is  truth,  _ 

And  truth,  that  oftenest  means  unkindness, 
This  once  is  joy. 

Men°have  too  many  words:  but  there's  a  word 
That  holds  all  others,  as  you  hold  for  me 
The  provocation  of  all  disquieting  women : 
This  love  is  to  strike  deep,  and  when  you  awake 
You  shall  be  sure  of  me,  you  shall  devote 
Fire  of  your  brain,  fire  of  your  heart,  to  me. 

Where?  Where  ?  Your  voice  sounds  close  below 

me. 
You  must  not  kneel  to  me. 
Come,  come  to  me  :  I  would  bend  down 
And  clasp  you  into  my  breath, 
But  creeping  palsies  hold  me; 
39 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

My  arms  and  thighs  are  heavy  things 

That  will  not  move  for  me. 

You  know  she  binds  me: 

You  can  loose  me:  you  dare  not  act. 

Envoy,  in  a  clear,  natural  voice  as  he  starts  to  his 

feet  and  approaches  Gruach. 
Falter  no  more  in  the  dim  passages. 
That  in  the  outer  walls  of  life's  house  burrow 
And  endlessly  return  upon  themselves. 
Awake  and  with  me  dare.   Awake!  Awake! 

Gruach,  awaking,  loosens  her  hold  of  her 
lamp,  which  goes  out  in  falling:  she 
stares,  startled;  then,  -with  a  plain- 
tive, long  sigh,  reels  and  sinks:  the 
Envoy  reaches  her  barely  in  time  to 
receive  her  in  his  arms. 
Have  I  broken  the  bird's  wings  to  catch  the  bird? 
Have  I  shattered  the  door  of  her  mind  to  enter 

there? 
This  ruin  is  done  in  me;  I  have  unbuilt 
The  only  hallowed  place  where  I  can  worship. 

A  slight  pause. 
Her  heart  begins  anew; 
And  nascent  life  is  trembling  everywhere. 

He  kisses  her. 
Not  any  words  shall  peril  her  again 
By  sudden  occurrence  ;  I'll  use  a  quieter  means, 
And  through  a  more  unwary  sense  infuse 
My  life  into  her  sources,  into  her  thought. 

He  kisses  her  repeatedly. 

Gruach. 

Where  am  I  ?    What  have  I  done? 
Some  distillation  lately  touched  my  lips: 
40 


GRUACH 

A  freshness  that  awoke  me  lingers  there. 

What  will  you  do  with  me,  beautiful  stranger  t 

Why  are  you  here?  Who  are  you?  Go  from  my 
chamber. 

Loose  me.    Leave  me.    Loose  me.    Let  me  go. 

She  first  seizes  his  shoulders  to  push  htm 
from  her,  then  slips  her  arms  about 
his  waist  and  -wrestles  with  him.  Her 
onset  almost  overthrows  him,  and  he 
only  continues  with  difficulty  to  hold 
his  own. 

Envoy. 

Listen.  ...  I  am  the  same  Macbeth.  .  .  . 

It  was  the  distillation  of  my  soul.  .  .  . 

Gruach,  unheedingly. 

Thieves  are  men  of  the  night:  murderers 

Are  men  of  the  night.    You  have  the  stoats  and 

foumart's 
Passion  for  throats  in  the  dark:  you  are  not  one 
Who  kills  in  the  open,  you  would  kill  in  sleep  and 
In  the  vile  safety  of  a  private  room. 
Faugh,  you  foul  treacherous  beast.  .  .  .  Aha,  aha, 
My  hand  is  on  your  dagger:  let  go  your  hold, 
Or  I'll  drive  it  down  the  side  of  your  neck. 

Envoy.  ,    .     „   Strike, 

Her  bare  arm  shoots  up  to  bring  the  dagger 
down  with  force:  he  catches  her  wrist 
in  the  air. 
Lately  I  heard  your  spirit  take  a  voice 
And  from  outside  our  earth-taught  reticence 
Speak  :  sure  and  clear  and  deathless  and  afar, 
4i 


G   R  U  A  C  H 

Like  the  first  half-waked  bird  in  Spring's  first 

dawn, 
Its  darkling  dewy  murmurs  then  gave  up 
Your  mind  to  me,  your  being  to  me. 
Would  you  undo  it  in  a  waking  dream? 

Gruacii. 

You!  You!  O,  dangerous  knife. 

What  thoughts  have  you  pressed  into  its  haft  of 

old? 
Not  many  breaths  ago  its  touch  lit  in  me 
Conceptions  of  destroying  unknown  to  me  : 
My  mind  was  ready,  and  I  did  intend 
To  strike  you  down  and  desolate  my  years. 

The  dagger  falls  from  her  hand. 
Speak  softly,  my  lord  ;  but  speak. 
How  have  you  found  my  chamber? 

Envoy.  Look  about  you. 

Gruach. 

Why  have  you  brought  me  here? 

Envoy.  You  came  alone. 

Gruach. 

Were  you  here  before  me? 

Envoy.  Surely. 

Gruach.  But  why?  But  why? 

Envoy. 

I  have  slept  here. 

42 


GRUACH 
Gruach.      Had  you,  then,  thought  to  meet  me? 

Envoy. 

We  might  have  met  no  more. 

Gruach.  Did  you  not  care? 

Envoy. 

I  cared  to  do  your  wish  more  than  my  duty: 

I  was  cheated  of  choice.    Your  elder  kinswoman 

Denied  to  me  your  offered  bridal  bed 

(I  would  have  lain  beside  it  on  the  floor), 

Deprived  me  of  the  kneeling  room  you  gave 

Near  to  your  feet  at  the  altar,  and  of  the  seat 

Upon  your  bench  at  the   board;    and    left   me 

nothing 
But  leave  to  ride  away  before  you  rose. 

Gruach.  . 

I  am  sick  in  my  limbs  and  my  mind  to  learn  so 

late 
I  might  have  lost  you  while  I  dreamed  of  you— 
For  I  have  dreamed  of  you  to-night,  my  lord, 
In  the  security  of  a  sweet  to-morrow: 
I  am  sick  in  my  reins  and  my  compassionate  body 
To  feel  each  time  you  speak  that  I  have  meant 
To  tear  your  flesh  with  a  sharpened  piece  of  iron. 
You  know  what  it  means  to  me,  do  you  not? 
And  yet  I  do  not  know  why  I  am  here. 

Envoy. 

You  sought  in  sleep  the  stations  of  our  meeting, 
As  holy  women  the  stations  of  the  Cross 
To  act  again  life's  chosen,  passionate  hour. 
43 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

Gruach. 

I  am  not  a  sapless  girl  to  walk  in  sleep: 
I  can  control  my  force. 

Envoy.  You  came  to  me: 

You  told  me  all  I  know. 

Gruach.  I  did  not  speak: 

I  dreamed  I  heard  your  voice,  but  not  my  own. 

A  slight  pause. 
If  women  spoke  in  sleep  they  would  awake, 
They  have  suspicious  ears. 

A  slight  pause. 
What  have  I  said? 

Envoy. 

The   things  you   felt  last  night,   heart-shaking 

things 
That  timid  men  teach  women  to  wait  to  hear; 
The  truth  of  your  live  spirit  loosed  unaware, 
That,  rising  suddenly  from  ancient  darkness, 
Took  on  its  wings  the  light  of  the  next  dawn 
Before  the  lonely  night  below  was  past. 
The  rapture  of  presence  ;  the  offering  of  love; 
The  radiance  of  surrender:  of  these  you  spoke. 

Gruach. 

All,  all  is  true.    What  more  have  I  said?  What 
else? 

Envoy. 

You  uttered  no  more  but  love. 

Gruach. 

It  was  well  said.    I  could  not  say  it  now, 
44 


GRUACH 

Conscious  that  you  would  hear.    I  am  glad  it  is 

done. 
And  you?   I  dreamed  your  voice,  but  not  your 

words. 

Envoy. 

The  rapture  of  presence;  the  offering  of  love; 

A  sense  of  strange  remembrance :  I  told  of  these. 

Gruach. 

I  knew  it  all  last  night:  what  will  you  do:' 

Time  and  men's  rules  will  part  us  quickly  now, 

And  nothing  will  be  left. 

My  father's  race  is  ruined,  my  mother's  kin 

Hems  me  in  here  in  grim  solicitude; 

My  cousin  and  his  mother  demand  my  hand; 

They  mean  my  land.    I  cannot  stand  alone : 

Even  the  trees  and  mountains  in  this  wildness 

Huddle  together  against  the  blasts  of  time 

And  planetary  tempests:  what  should  I  do? 

This  is  my  hour  of  fate,  this  is  the  time 

When  I  must  break  the  blind  restricted  seed 

That  I  am  now,  move  with  the  winds  of  life 

And  yield  my  mental  issue  to  them  again, 

Or  in  this  present  burial  rot  and  change. 

Is  your  love  strength  or  weakness?    What  will 

you  do? 
Help  me,  and  now. 

Envoy. 

I  shall  not  ride  away  as  I  was  bidden ; 
I  shall  remain. 

When  Fortingall  has  all  his  guests  about  him 
I  will  declare  our  love  a«d,  by  the  weight 
Of  Duncan's  kinship  insisting  on  obedience, 
45 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

Forbid  your  marriage  until  I  come  again, 

My  errand  toCaithnessdone,  and  claim  your  troth; 

Marry  you  here  and  carry  you  to  Scone. 

Gruach. 

You  will  not  get  away  from  them  alive: 

There  are  no  King's  men  here. 

And  if  the  King  sends  men  to  look  for  you 

They  will  not  know  which  rock  in  this   rough 

valley 
Was  chosen  for  your  grave-stone. 
You  must  ride  now  as  you  were  bidden.   And  yet 
You  must  not  ride  from  me :  take  me  to  Scone : 
I  should  be  here  no  more  if  you  returned. 

Envoy. 

That  will  not  much  commend  us  to  the  King. 

Gruach. 

Then  I'll  to  Caithness  too;  but  now,  now,  now. 

You  must  ride  now;  and  I  must  go  with  you. 

Envoy. 

But  shall  we  not  be  followed? 

Gruach.  To  the  death. 

Envoy. 

Why  must  I  risk  your  life? 

Gruach.  The  chance  is  good. 

Conan  can  only  think  one  thought  at  once: 
His  hunt  will  storm  to  Inverness,  while  we 
Ride  North  by  East  until  we  are  far  from  here. 

Envoy. 

And  wed  in  Caithness'  church? 
46 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

Gruach.  And  swiftlier  wed 

In  the  first  church  we  come  to  when  we  are  clear. 

Envoy. 

Ride  with  me:  let  us  go. 

Gruach. 

Sir,  are  you  sure  of  me?  Before  you  take  me 

You  should  be  told  I  was  born  your  enemy: 

I  am  of  a  more  ancient  house  of  kings 

Than  you :  King  Kenneth  was  among  my  fathers. 

Envoy. 

Then  with  your  love 

You  bring  a  power  over  many  minds 

That,  if  we  are  added  truly  to  each  other, 

Can  set  us  higher  than  either  house  has  stood. 

Gruach. 

You  can  be  great  if  you  are  so  great-hearted. 

You  are  my  redeemer,  you  shall  have  my  faith ; 

Service,  and  I  can  serve  you  with  men's  truth; 

Devotion,  and  I  could  wreck  myself,  my  world, 

To  reach  its  end,  your  good. 

One  thing  is  mordant  in  me  at  thought  of  you  ; 

When  we  fought  body  to  body  you  overcame. 

I  must  undo  it;  let  us  strive  again. 

Come,  let  me  grasp  you. 

She  holds  out  her  arms  to  him. 
He  takes  her  hands  and  draws  her  to- 
ward him;  with  a  low  cry  she  feigns 
to  faint,  and  he  catches  her  to  him; 
she  lays  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  and 
laughs  lightly  and  gently. 
47" 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

Envoy. 

Circling  each  other  so  in  soft  enclosure, 

Loosening  our  folds  with  mutual-moving  breath, 

Our  wreathing  seems  to  rustle  and  expand, 

As  crushed,  unwrinkling  petals  in  a  bud 

Widen  together  in  unbroken  touch, 

Begin  a  blossom's  effluence,  concede 

A  blossom's  trembling  welcome  to  the  night 

That  fills  it,  and  that  it  believes  it  fills. 

Gruach. 

Beloved,  we  are  foolish:  we  should  ride. 

Envoy,  loosening  her. 

Put  on  your  clothes:  I  go  to  saddle  horses. 

Gruach. 

I  have  no  clothes:  all  that  I  ever  had 

Are  in  my  chamber  under  the  tower  roof: 

I  dare  not  fetch  them,  I  mightrouse  many  sleepers. 

Everything  I  have  worn  since  my  hair  grew  long 

Was  spun  and  woven  and  stitched  in  Fortingall: 

My  kin  shall  feel  my  clouts  flung  back  at  them 

If  I  go  out  with  nothing.    I  can  endure  it: 

I  have  gone  barefoot  in  snow  before  to-night, 

And  there  is  now  no  snow. 

Envoy. 

You  cannot  live  against  the  rushing  sharpness 

If  we  push  North  to-night. 

Going  to  the  curtained  recess. 

There  are  furs  here; 
You  shall  be  wrapt  in  them. 

He  brings  furs  piled  on  his  arm,    and 
throws  them  do7im  before  her. 
48 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

Gruach.  No,  not  the  white  one : 

The  white  bear-skin  is  Fern's  from  Norroway; 
She  was  born  cold  and  bloodless ;  she  is  soon 

chilled, 
|  She  needs  it.   Bring  the  wolf-cloak.   Put  it  round 

me. 

Envoy. 

Your  thin  white  feet  are  far  too  cold  already 

To  start  on  such  a  journey.    Are  there  no  shoes? 

Gruach. 

Ay,  in  the  tower:  but  shoes  in  the  air  are  useless. 

We  shall  find  old  brogues  in  the  stable. 

Envoy. 

What  horse  shall  I  saddle  for  you? 

Gruach. 

Saddle  no  horse  for  me:  I  must  ride  with  you: 

Two  tracks  would  tell  our  tale  more  certainly. 

Envoy,  unbarring  the  door. 

Will  you  mount  black  Fingal  here? 

Gruach. 

His  hoofs  would  sound  on  the  stones. 
Halter  him  to  the  ring  at  the  outer  gate : 
I  will  shortly  join  you  there. 

Envoy,  having  opened  the  door. 

Snow:  there  is  snow. 

O,  tranquil,  dreadful  calm :  O,  deadly  peace. 

We  are  shut  back  iftte-the-ea-st-on0  Hfe- 

By  pale,  relentless,  softly  closing  gates 

49  e 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

That  no  man  ever  opened. 

We  may  not  ride  to-night:  your  fate  has  fallen. 

Or  is  it  mine  that  hurts  you? 

He  throws  open  both  doors:  the  ground  is 
seen  to  sink  sharply  away  from  the 
threshold  to  a  narrow  white  valley 
among  white  mountains.  Afaintness 
in  the  sky  permeates  a  dense  mist  of 
lightly  falling  snow. 

Gruach. 

O,  joyful  silence;  soundlessly  dropping  curtains 

About  the  secret  chamber  of  the  earth 

That  shall  contain  our  bridal  bed.    O,  sleep, 

The  bride's  white  hush  is  in  me;  I  will  part 

The  soundless  curtains,  and  meet  what  is  within — 

Either  continuing  sleep,  that  can  withdraw  me 

From  this  dead  life  with  love  my  latest  hope, 

Or  delicate,  wildering  waking  in  some  pale  room 

To  find  my  love  with  me. 

Will  you  not  come,  my  lord? 

The  snow  is  but  a  salting  yet:  I  go} 

For  in  an  hour  the  breeding,  feeding  storm 

Will  cover  our  foot-prints,  stifle  all  pursuit. 

We  can  point  straight  for  Inverness  untracked, 

And  thread  the  perilous  pass  ere  drifts  are  deep. 

Envoy. 

Know  you  the  roads? 

Gruach.  I  know  them. 

Envoy.  I  am  ready. 

Gruach. 

If  the  storm  clears,  our  dark  shapes  will  be  seen 
5o 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

Afar  in  the  sharp  air. 

She  steps  to  the  pile  of furs •,  throwing  ofj 
her  cloak  as  she  goes. 
Wear  Conan's  sheepskin  coat.    Help  me  to  don 
j  Fern's  bear-skin  cloak;  lift  up  the  hood  .  .  .  Stay, 
stay  ; 
I  must  put  my  hair  up  first. 

She  tears  off  her  nightcap  and  throws  it 
into  the  sinking  fire. 

I  have  no  pins. 
Where  is  your  little  dagger? 

Envoy,  stooping  where  the  dagger  lies. 

It  fell  in  the  rushes. 

Gruach,  holding  her  upcoiled  hair  with  one  hand. 
Give  it  to  me. 

She  thrusts  it  through  the  coil  of  hair. 
Cover  my  head  with  the  hood. 
^Is  your  horse  dark  like  you? 

Envoy.  He  is  black  as  smoke. 

Gruach. 

You  can  abandon  him. 

Conan's  white  battle-horse  will  serve  us  better: 

Few  men  can  see  him  moving  against  new  snow. 

Envoy. 

He  saved  me  in  a  clenched,  stark  river-fight, 
When  armoured  men  went  down  a  falling  spate 
And  heavier  horses  under  them:  again 
He  saved  me  from  a  murderer  in  the  night 
By  crying  out  in  his  stall  across  a  garth: 
When  I  shall  enter  the  stable  presently 
5i 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

He  will  speak  to  me  before  I  am  in  his  sight, 
He  will  stamp  until  I  speak  to  him,  and  touch. 
I  cannot  leave  him  here. 

Gruach. 

You  set  me  in  more  danger. 

Although  you  should  devote  your  life  to  him 

You  cannot  keep  him  more  than  a  dozen  years. 

Do  you  put  a  horse  before  me?  Speak.    Be  sure. 

Envoy. 

The  King  could  send  a  rout  of  men-at-arms 

To  claim  him  later — soon— in  his  own  name. 

Turning  to  the  door. 
Which  is  the  horse? 


Gruach.  White  Uthal  is  near  the  door. 

Envoy. 

Shall  I  return  for  you? 

Gruach.  I  would  first  write 

This  life's  last  things:  I  cannot  forego  it  now. 
Give  me  some  leaf  to  write  on,  I  have  nothing; 
Her  scrivening-skins  are  locked  away. 

Envoy.  I  have  nothing. 

Gruach. 

What  is  there  in  your  wallet? 

Envoy.  Nothing  is  there, 

Save  my  King's  letter  to  the  Caithness  Jarl. 
52 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

Gruach. 

The  margin  of  that  will  serve. 

Envoy. 

We  must  not  touch  it,  lady.    The  King's  hand 
Is  hallowed,  the  King's  seal  is  inviolable: 
With  it  I  lose  my  life. 

Gruach. 

Your  life  is  not  your  own:  it  is  now  mine. 

Shew  me  the  letter. 

Envoy.  Beloved,  it  must  not  be. 

Gruach,  laying  one  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and 
taking  the  letter  from  his  -wallet  -with  the  other. 
It  must;  it  is  my  pride  that  it  shall  be. 

She  breaks  the  seal  and  opens  the  letter. 

Envoy. 

Your  dear  hands  are  soon  cruel. 

Gruach.  Look,  it  is  well ; 

This  piece  is  bare  save  for  a  superscription. 

Envoy. 

And  half  of  the  King's  name  within  the  fold.  .  .  . 

It  is  too  thick  to  tear. 

Gruach.  Not  for  the  teeth. 

She  bites   the  edge,    then  tears  off  one 
portion  of  the  letter. 
Keep  this.    It  is  enough.    I  have  not  hurt  you. 
There  is  still  more  left  than  the  Jarl  will  care 
to  read. 

53 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

Envoy. 

I  must  blame  some  serving-man  for  this. 
It  is  not  wise  for  a  well-born  man  to  say 
He  has  been  so  familiar  with  a  menial 
That  such  a  letter  could  come  into  base  hands. 

Gruach. 

Dearest  and  dearer,  pardon  me  for  the  sake 

Of  the  true  words  I  shall  write  on  it  to  my  kin. 

Envoy. 

You  have  no  pen. 

Gruach,  searching  among  the  ashes  on  the  hearth. 

A  wood-coal  twig  writes  well. 

Beloved,  you  loiter  long:  hasten,  and  ever  more 

hasten : 
The  bridal  dawn  is  near,  my  enemies  awake. 

Envoy,  as  he  goes  out  by  the  great  door. 
I  serve  you  for  ever,  white  spouse. 

Gruach.  I  shall  be  ready  ere  you. 

He  disappears  downward  to  the  right. 
Gruach  lays  the  fragment  of  the 
letter  on  the  table  to  the  right  and 
stoops  over  it  to  write. 
Is  it  so  soon?  What,  shall  I  suddenly 
Believe  this  life  is  done  and  I  can  go? 
I  am  not  foolish  yet:  in  my  deep  places 
I  know  it  is  not  so.    I  know  the  way 
In  which  hope  gutters  out  in  a  cold  draught, 
And  life  is  seen  to  be  a  habit,  heavy 
To  put  down  courage,  vision  and  eagerness. 
The  marvel  of  this  night  being  perfect  now, 
54 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

Some  meagre  unexpected  chance  can  soon 
Flaw  and  disperse  it  in  a  long,  sick  moment, 
Perfection  being  momentary  of  nature; 
And  when,  the  kind,  deceitful  darkness  over, 
Impoverishing  daylight  shews  to  me 
The  dead  life  here,  I  shall  be  here  alone. 
O,  let  me  dream  anew,  and  in  a  dream 
Of  uttered  scorn  sting  vivid  life  to  spring 
Back  to  my  sinking  heart. 

She  writes. 
^     To  The  Lady  of  Fortingall. 

I  am  not  of  your  blood  to  obey  you ;  I  will  not 
mother  your  blood.  I  would  live,  so  I  leave  you. 
For  your  lodging  and  nurture  take  the  Bride  of 
Fortingall's  clothes  in  payment;  you  will  find  a 
doll  to  fit  them  who  will  sit  where  you  put  her. 
I  have  given  away  my  lands;  keep  your  hands 
and  feet  from  them. 

She  writes. 
To  The  Heir  of  Fortingall. 
If  you  would  be  married,  choose  your  wife  for 
yourself.    I  have  gone  away  with  a  man,  and  you 
will  not  see  me  again. 

She  writes. 
To  Fern. 
I  leave  you  my  love  with  my  wisdom.  When 
you  meet  a  proper  man,  take  him  before  another 
woman  can.  You  will  not  come  to  life  until  you 
cross  your  own  threshold  and  sit  by  your  own 
hearth. 

Gruach. 
It  is  an  aged  woman's  hand. 
I  cannot  write  to-night. 

/The  hand  may  waver,  the  flanks  shake,  the  limbs 
^Tremble,  as  mine  do  now,  and  yet  the  heart 
55 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

May  hold  its  firm  and  steadfast  course  untouched, 

Being  nearer  to  the  mind  ; 

But  here  the  immediate  substance  of  my  heart 

Slackens  and  shivers,  my  mental  force  withdrawn; 

I  have  no  strength  to  continue  this  delay. 

He  is  too  long. 

Why  should  a  fair,  strange  man  regard  my  lot, 

Or  reverence  my  will?  He  need  not  do  it. 

He  will  not  come  again;  and  this  is  all. 

I'll  go  to  him. 

Is  that  a  sound?  A  door  upstairs;  a  footfall? 

She  runs  to  the  stair-foot  and  listens. 
Nothing.    A  gown  trailing?  Nothing.    Nothing. 

Envoy,  as  he  approaches  the  doorway  from  the  right. 
The  outer  gate  is  locked. 

Gruach.  The  key  is  here. 

She  disappears  through  the  low  doorway 
to   the   right  and  returns  instafttly 
with  a  large,  long  key. 
We  can  lock  the  dooroutside  and  ride  away  with  it. 

She  laughs  softly. 

Envoy. 

As  we  go  down  and  pass  the  stable-door, 

Do  not  ask  me  to  speak.    Fingal  would  hear. 

Gruach. 

Let  me  go  first;  step  then  upon  my  footprints 

And  wipe  them  off  my  kindred's  soil  for  ever. 

Envoy. 

Before  our  life  begins, 
Before  we  go,  tell  in  this  hallowed  place 
The  name  I  have  not  heard  ;  whose  sound  I  await 
56 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

As  waking,  eager  birds  await  the  light : 
Your  name,  my  light,  your  name. 

Gruach. 

Within  the  dark  immuring  womb  a  blind 
And  unseen  child  is  nameless,  and  I  too, 
Unliving  and  immured,  will  have  no  name 
In  my  subjection;  this  white  waif  of  night 
Shall  have  no  name  for  you. 
The  altar-priest  shall  speak  it  first  to  you. 
Before  we  leave  this  iron-coloured  prison, 
Vow  you  to  me  that,  when  you  have  the  weight 
In  the  King's  mind  to  do  a  lawless  thing, 
You  will  return  and  tumble  down  these  walls 
Into  a  cairn  of  stones,  and  burn  the  stones 
To  ashen  dust  wherein  no  weed  will  strike. 

Envoy. 

This  is  a  holy  house  for  me;  the  hands 
I  lay  on  it  would  turn  to  hands  of  blessing. 
The  husk  that  has  shed  you  is  still  a  shrine 
Which  in  my  old  age  I  shall  seek  again. 
"^We  cannot  burn  the  past ;  it  would  stand  yet 
In  you,  in  me.    Then  let  it  stand  for  me. 

Gruach. 

Lift  up  your  hand  and  vow,  for  love  of  me. 

Envoy. 

I  will  do  all  that  any  man  can  do, 

For  love  of  you. 

Gruach,  going  to  the  hearth,  and  gathering  a 

handful  of  wood-ash. 
It  shall  go  down,  or  like  a  broken  tree 
Whiten  and  crumble  to  a  hollow  bone; 

57 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

The  moon  shall  soften  it  to  a  cowering-  dread, 
And  shapeless  noises  shall  inhabit  it. 

She  moves  slowly  from  the  hearth  to  the 
great  door,  scattering  the  ash  with  a 
sower's  motion  as  she  goes. 
I  sow  and  I  sow  the  chaff  of  the  seed  of  fire : 
The  waving,  barren  harvest  of  wilding  flame 
Shall  here  spring  up,  nourished  by  stormy  air. 
"Come  ruin,  ruin  and  grief  upon  this  old 
Dwelling  of  sorrow  and  my  captivity. 
My  mother  died  of  grief;  it  is  not  ill 
Her  hard,  unfaithful  race  should  die  of  grief. 
Come,  ruin,  down  upon  their  greedy  life, 
Destruction  and  unseating  of  the  mind; 
Woe,  be  embodied  to  their  unclosing  eyes 
While  brackish  tears  run  down  and  lodge  in  their 

lips, 
And  all  they  have  flj^s  up  in  flakes  of  flame, 
To  fall  as  now  these  ashes. 

With  the  last  words  she  reaches  the 
threshold,  where  she  turns  to  the 
Envoy. 

Come,  Macbeth. 
She  goes  out  by  the  great  door  and,  descend- 
ing to  the  right,  quickly  disappears. 
The  Envoy  follows  her. 
After  a  short  pause  an  owl  cries  twice  with 
a  long  retreating  sound,  as  if  dis- 
turbed and  flying  away. 
A  light  passes  from  right  to  left  of  the  high 
arcade:  Domhnal  descends  the  stair, 
a  lamp  in  his  hand. 

Domhnal. 

The  stranger  is  not  here.   He  has  gone,  maybe. 
58 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

That  would  be  well ;  we  want  no  King's  men  here 
Among  the  annoyances  of  a  day  of  rejoicing. 
How  cold  the  house  has  grown. 
Both  doors  left  open?  He  has  certainly  gone. 
He  must  be  highly  born  to  be  so  careless. 
Snow,  snow,  snow. 

It  is  the  last  injustice  of  the  order  of  things 
For  snow  to  be  added  to  the  burdens  of  a  feast- 
day. 
Men  will  tread  it  in,  and  cut,  and  in  again ; 
Fine  ladies  will  tread  it  upstairs  and  downstairs, 
And  spread  it  with  their  skirts  until  the  bride's 

chamber 
Is  like  the  track  to  the  cowsheds  in  a  wet  Autumn. 
I  can  but  shut  it  out  awhile. 

He  turns  to  go  out  by  the  low  door,  then 
he  sees  Gruach's  letter  on  the  table. 
A  letter?  This  is  the  stranger's  courtesies: 
He  is  not  graceless,  though  an  upstart's  man. 
"Gruach."  What  have  I  here? 
The  young  man  has  truly  gone,  and  with  what  he 

could  carry. 
The  new  King's  men  are  all  reivers  and  robbers. 
"  I  will  not  mother  your  blood  ...  I  have  given 

away  my  lands  .  .  . 
I  have  gone  away  with  a  man  .  .  .  You  will  not 

see  me  again  ..." 
Oho,  Oho;  here  are  great  things  to  do. 
But  which  is  first? 

He  stands  in  deep  consideration,  the  letter 

in  his  hand. 
A  sound  of  scuffling  and  women* s  voices 
wrangling  comes  from  the  high  ar- 
cade. Presently  one  of  the  young 
women  hurries  down  the  stair, pulling 
59 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

the  girl  after  her  by  the  arm  and 
followed  by  the  other  young  woman, 
who  thrusts  the  girl  forivard  from 
behind.  The  girl  stands  sobbing  and 
nibbing  her  eyes;  she]  is  only  half 
dressed,  and  carries  the  rest  of  her 
clothes  wider  one  arm. 

First  Young  Woman. 

Come  on,  Onion-Peeler,  Grease-Skimmer,  Rancid 

Rags; 
You  shall  learn  not  to  lie  in  bed  like  an  earl's 

daughter. 

Girl. 

I  will  not  go:  I  will  not. 

Second  Young  Woman. 

Lig-a-bed,  you  are  to  be  up  first.  {Pinching  her.) 

Will  you  remember? 
If  you  are  not  down  in  time  to  kindle  my  fires, 
You  shall  be  pinched  all  over,  all  over,  all  over, 
Until  you  are  like  a  bush  of  ripe  blackberries. 
So.    (Girl.   O!)    And  so.    (Girl.   O!)    And  so. 

(Girl.  O!) 

Girl. 

I'll  not  bear  it.    I'll  not  stay,  you  murderers. 
My  mother  told  me  to  go  straight  home  to  her 
If  the  kitchen-ladies  at  the  Castle  were  unkind  to 


First  Young  Woman. 

Go  home  to  her  now :  she  will  be  glad  to  see  you, 
And  gladder  still  to  see  old  Marget  after  you. 
60 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

Girl. 

I  cannot  help  it:  I  cannot:  indeed  I  cannot. 

When  I  am  with  you  by  day  I  only  see  what  is 

there ; 
But  every  night  when  I  am  alone  the  Sight  comes 

on  me. 
It  will  not  let  me  sleep  until  the  dawn  begins: 
Then  I  am  heavy  and  sick.    Let  me  lie  down. 

Pity,  pity  me. 

First  Young  Woman. 

What  do  you  see,  you  mole,  when  the  Sight  is  on 
you? 

Girl. 

I  see  the  Lady  Gruach. 


Second  Young  Woman. 

We  all  see  the  Lady  Gruach 
More  than  we  choose;  but  she  never  keeps  us 
awake. 

First  Young  Woman. 

Nor  do  we  call  it  second  sight  when  she  appears. 

Girl,  desperately. 

I  tell  you  I  see  the  Lady  Gruach  every  night. 

She  is  covered  from  shoulder  to  foot  with  a  trail- 
ing, spreading  cloak 

That  is  not  red  like  blood,  nor  blue  like  the  deep 
lake, 

Yet  gleams  of  both  in  the  folds:  it  is  covered  with 
green,  bright  eyes. 
61 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

There  are  large  green  lights  in  her  hair  over  both 

her  ears. 
She  wears  a  golden  crown  as  if  she  is  a  queen. 
Her  pitiless  face  alarms,  yet  I  must  look  and  look : 
Her  gaze  is  hard  to  me,  yet  when  we  meet  by  day 
She  holds  no  memory  of  me  in  those  cold  eyes. 
Nightly  she  bears  a  dagger.  .  .  . 

First  Young  Woman.  Shivering  liar, 

That  finds  you  out:  you  have  neither  sight  nor 

truth: 
Queens  carry  sceptres,  they  are  not  seen  with 

daggers. 


Second  Young  Woman. 

And  how  can  Gruach  ever  become  a  queen? 

She  is  to  wed  long  Conan  after  sunrise. 

Girl. 

She  bears  a  dagger,  a  red  dagger.  .  .  . 

First  Young  Woman,  seizing  a  tangle  of  the 
Girl's  dangling  hair. 

Come  on. 
Your  second  sight  is  not  worth  waiting  for: 
You  had  better  see  your  own  ghost  lighting  fires, 
For  that  is  all  you  are  worth.    Come  on. 

Second   Young   Woman,    seizing   the  Girl's 
hanging  hair  on  the  other  side. 

Come  down : 
Come  down,  you  shall  draw  me  the  water. 
62 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

Girl.  O,  no,  no! 

They  hurry  the  Girl  by  her  hair  out 
through  the  low  doorway  to  the  right: 
she  sobs  and  protests  inarticulately 
and  struggles  as  they  go. 

The  Boy  descends  the  stair  quickly,  and 
follows  the  women  out. 

Marget  follows  the  Boy  down  the  stair. 

Marget. 

The  women  are  too  noisy. 

Domhnal.  Let  them  alone: 

The  girl  from  the  clachan  has  been  marred  at 

home, 
She  needs  rough  teasing. 

Marget.  They  are  not  too  rough, 

They  are  too  noisy :  they  must  be  spoken  to. 

Domhnal. 

Let  them  alone:  there  is  a  graver  thing 

To  speak  of  now. 

The  man  who  yester-eve  knocked  at  our  gate 

Has  carried  off  young  Gruach  in  the  night. 

Go  down  and  stop  the  roasting  and  the  boiling: 

I  go  to  raise  the  house  and  the  whole  township, 

To  send  out  riders  to  hunt  the  naughty  child, 

And  others  to  meet  the  wedding-guests  who  ride 

And  turn  them  home  again. 

Marget. 

How  have  you  heard  of  it? 

Domhnal.  By  Gruach's  hand: 

I  found  this  writing  on  the  table  here. 

Marget  takes  the  letter,  turns  it  about 
all  ways,  and  throws  it  on  the  table. 
63 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

Marget. 

Leave  it  for  others  to  find.    All  shall  go  on. 

Again,  old  friend,  you  are  about  to  be 

A  foolish,  vain,  officious,  blind  old  man. 

What  have  you  to  do  with  it?  What  have  I? 

Morag  is  ageing:  when  the  old  devil  dies 

We  do  not  want  a  ferret-eyed  young  mistress 

To  keep  us  still  uneasy.    Let  her  go: 

Fern  is  mild :  Conan  will  follow  her. 

And  let  the  feast  go  on :  Conan  would  feast 

If  Gruach  were  dead,  and  welcome  the  event 

That  brought  him  many  guests :  he  will  not  miss 

A  bride  he  feared,  if  he  may  eat.    Come  down  ; 

I'll  lift  the  crust  of  the  lamb  pie  for  you. 

She  goes  out  by  the  low  door. 

Domhnal. 

Elderly  women  believe  they  are  always  right : 

But  this  one  may  be  now. 

He  follows  Marget  out. 

The  two  Serving-Men  descend  the  stair; 
one  supports  the  other. 

First  Man. 
You  are  drunk. 

Second  Man.      I  am  not  drunk. 

First  Man.  I  say  you  are  drunk. 

Second  Man. 

I  am  not  drunk:  I  was  comfortable  last  night, 
But  now  I   have  slept  it  off.     You  can  see  for 
yourself. 

64 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

First  Man. 

You  have  not  had  the  time  to  sleep  it  off: 

We  are  fetched  out  of  bed  at  an  immoral  hour. 

Second  Man. 

A  most  unhealthy  hour;  an  immodest  hour. 
But  all  will  be  well  to-morrow  in  the  morning. 
The  new  young  mistress,  the  pink  and  coy  young 

mistress, 
Will  not  forsake  her  bed  to-morrow  morn 
At  the  unwise  hours  ordained  by  the  old  mistress. 

First  Man. 

That  is  deep  wisdom.    You  are  drunk,  neverthe- 
less. 

Second  Man. 

I  say  I  am  not  drunk. 

They  go  out  together  affectionately  by  the 

low  door. 
Conan  descends  the  stair  stealthily ',  peep- 
ing round  the  corner  mistrustfully  as 
he  comes.  He  is  in  his  shirt  and 
cross -gartered  braccae,  and  bare- 
footed; he  holds  a  sword  out  of  sight 
at  his  side. 

Conan. 

The  disquieting  stranger  has  gone.  He  has  truly 

gone. 
I  could  have  slept  again  had  I  believed  it. 
He  has  not  finished  here:  he  will  return: 
He  shall  not  pass  my  outer  gate  again. 
But  he  is  gone:  I  should  be  easy  now, 
If  this  were  not  my  wedding-day. 

65  F 


G  R  U  A  C  H 

The  Thane  of  Ardven's  daughters  will  look  at  me, 

To  watch  with  mocking  eyes  what  I  shall  do; 

And  Gruach  will  not  look  at  me,  nor  seem 

To  know  I  stand  or  kneel  or  sit  by  her. 

But  that's  no  grief;  when  she  does  look  at  me 

She  brims  me  with  discomfort.    She  is  not  fit 

To  be  a  wife :  she  follows  her  own  will. 

I    had    liefer   wed   the   bridge-end    blacksmith's 

daughter: 
She  fills  her  clothes  as  well  as  my  lady  cousin, 
And  her  lips  bringthoughts  of  dew  on  rosy  plums. 
I  am  not  afraid  to  touch  her.    If  I  touch  Gruach 
I  feel  her  body  go  hard  beneath  my  hand, 
And  danger  crouching  there :  if  she  does  nothing, 
She  makes  me  feel  outside  her. 
I  would  not  wed  her  if  she  had  no  land  : 
The  inconvenient  wisdom  of  my  mother 
Is  not  to  be  avoided;  land  is  land. 
The  knightly  stranger  shall  not  imperil  it. 
He  has  gone.    It  is  early.    I'll  get  to  bed  again, 
And  sleep  till  I  am  called. 

He  turns  to  ascend  the  stair. 


CURTAIN. 


66 


BRITAIN'S  DAUGHTER 

PLAY  IN  ONE  ACT 


TO  EDMUND  GOSSE 

~Ty  Y  Babbicombe  and  Oddicombe 
•*-S    The  daily  waters  go  and  come, 
And  rise  and  foam,  and  fall  and  foam: 
And  on  that  unforgotten  shore, 
Whose  freedoms  can  be  mine  no  more, 
Backward  through  time's  prospect-glass 
I  see  a  divindling  presence  pass, 
A  lonely  youth  who  loitered  there 
In  the  still,  sparkling  Winter  air, 
Thinking  of  plays  and  poetry 
And  beauty  newly  found  thereby 
That  should  to  life  at  last  give  life 
And  make  it  worth  enduring,  strife 
And  scorn  and  bitterness  and  numb 
Passion  alike  that  made  youth  dumb 
At  misconception  of  hard  men 
Whose  world  of  getting  hemmed  him  then, 
Whose  sympathy  was  at  the  best 
A  kind  contempt,  indulgent  jest, 
For  all  that  could  not  be  possessed. 

And  as  he  paced  that  shining  shore 
He  thought  of  you  long  years  before 
Treading  those  shifting  stones  beside 
The  changing  volume  of  the  tide, 
Learning  the  nature  of  beauty  there 
By  other  ways  of  youth  and  care; 
And  when  the  waning  Winter  light 
And  sharpening  air  and  sense  of  night 
Oncoming  turned  him  once  again 
To  warmth  and fi relit  windows,  then 
In  your  old  footsteps  still  he  passed 
By  Petitor  and  Fore  Street  last 
To  a  sequestered  house  near  by 
Of  learning  and  austerity, 
Shyly  kind  and  primly  wise, 
69 


Sweet  with  learning's  innocencies. 
Goodness,  sincerity  and  grace 
Of  gentleness  filled  that  calm  place 
By  her  who  still  inhabited 
Its  chambers,  and  their  master  dead 
Kept  present  by  the  cherishing 
Of  her  benign  and  ministering 
Memory  and  its  tender  glow 
Upon  the  things  of  long  ago. 

With  lamplight,  and  the  curtains  drawn 
Upon  the  empty  tree-wrapped  lawn 
Pale  beneath  an  early  moon 
And  stilled  save  for  the  broken  tune 
Of  wandering  sea-airs  scarcely  heard 
Among  the  topmost  boughs  unstirred 
Above  the  house,  she  spoke  of  you 
Then  lately  gone,  the  men  you  knew, 
The  books  you  knew,  the  books  you  wrote: 
At  that  first  news  of  things  remote 
From  meagre  life  yet  daily  true 
A  heaven  and  earth  were  made  anew; 
The  kingdom  of  the  word  became 
Power,  illumination,  fame; 
Romance,  enchantment  came  to  be 
Fad  and  authenticity. 

How  many  days,  how  many  ways, 
Since  those  far-off  and  primal  days 
Lit  by  their  own  interior  light, 
Have  I  pursued  the  infinite 
Of  poetry,  how  often  found 
Upon  some  new-discovered  ground 
I  trod  among  your  footsteps  still. 
Tidings  of  unknown  poets  would  thrill 
The  mind  from  some  chance  page  of  yours, 
And,  while  the  craftsman's  quest  endures, 
By  instinct  and  but  half  aware 
TO 


Deep  in  my  consciousness  the  care 
I  shall  remember  wherewith  I 
Eagerly  and  delicately 
Savoured  the  delicate  certainty 
Of  your  clear  verse 's  filagree, 
Then  found  that  savour  could  impart 
My  earliest  lessons  in  the  art. 

Take  then  from  me  a  gift  in  kind, 
And  let  it  say  that,  though  my  mind 
Broods  upon  ruder  themes  than  those 
In  which  your  rare  fair  music  flows, 
Yet  I  have  lingered  once  to  hear 
That  music  and  still  hold  it  dear 
And  unforgotten  in  the  glow 
Of  beauty  taught  me  long  ago. 


December  31st,  1920. 


7' 


PERSONS: 

Madron,  a  British  peasant. 
An  Old  Man,  a  Briton. 
A  Young  Man,  a  Briton. 
Placidius,  a  Roman  General. 
A  Centurion. 
Three  Roman  Soldiers. 
A  Young  Roman  Soldier. 
Two  Roman  Sailors. 

Nest,  a  Princess  of  Britain. 

Widan,  her  nurse. 

Ellin. 

Ennid. 

Five  Girls. 

Three  Women. 

A  Young  Woman. 

An  Old  Woman. 

Soldiers,  Sailors,  and  Populace. 

The  scene  is  in  Britain  at  the  period  of  the  Roman 
subjugation  of  the  country. 


BRITAIN'S  DAUGHTER 

The  scene  is  a  sea-shore  on  the  South-East  coast  of 
Britain  at  midnight.  The  night  is  clear,  with 
a  few  stars;  the  sea  is  still,  except  for  the 
occasional  plash  of  a  small  wave  at  the  water's 
edge  and  the  occasional  flash  of  a  star's  reflec- 
tion extended  along  a  gathering  ripple. 

In  the  darkness  the  stems  of  two  Roman 
galleys  make  a  darker  mass  at  the  back  to  the 
left,  hi  the  right  foreground  rises  a  weed- 
hang,  salt-encrusted  mooring  post. 

A  young  woman,  Nest,  is  tied  by  the  wrists 
to  a  ring  in  the  post  higher  than  her  head:  a 
pale,  blood-bedabbled  cloak  hangs  from  her 
shoulders  and  falls  close  to  her  body.  A  t  her 
feet  an  older  woman,  Widan,  crouches  on  her 
knees;  she  is  covered  with  a  dark  blue  mantle 
that  makes  her  almost  invisible  in  the  night; 
her  head  is  bent  and  her  long,  thick,  grey  hair 
falls  forward  over  her  face.  A  Roman  soldier 
stands  on  guard  near  the  post,  leaning  on  his 
spear. 

The  silence  at  the  rising  of  the  curtain  is 
broken  by  a  sob  and  a  short  low  cry  from 
Widan. 

The  Soldier  sings  in  a  rumbling  undertone. 

THE  rat  is  a  sociable  fellow, 
But  I  cannot  abide  his  tail; 
I  like  to  hear  the  long  bone  crack 

73 


BRITAIN'S      DAUGHTER 

When  my  little  dog's  teeth  get  into  his  back.  .  .  . 
The  song  is  lost  in  a  yawn.  He  addresses 
Widan. 
Fat  hen  with  no  rump  feathers, 
When  will  you  weary  of  squatting  in  your  dust- 
hole? 
What  will  the  other  old  women  in  the  town 
Think  when  they  hear  that,  while  they  were  in  bed 
Shivering  lonely,  or  waking  with  cold  bones 
Of  skinny  husbands  thrust  against  their  sides, 
You  have  been  out  all  night  with  a  fighting  man? 
Get  home  and  leave  your  little  princess  to  me. 


Widan,  raising  her  head  and  addressing  Nest. 
Nest,  Nest,  your  silences  stung  them.    Why  will 

you  brave  them? 
Why  are  you  stubborn  for  these  great-hearted 

ways? 
What  is  the  use?  Yield,  and  live. 
If  you  are  lashed  again  you  will  not  live. 
Will  you  not  save  yourself?  Then  save  others: 
The  last  woes  come  upon  us  all  at  dawn. 
Obedience  is  required  from  you  in  the  end: 
This  is  more  bitter  for  you  than  for  low  beings, 
Yet  you  must  learn  it.    There  's  a  hard  place  in 

life 
When  it  is  plain  to  everyone  who  is  born 
That  something  in  another  mind  arises 
Which  he  will  need  to  obey,  or  life  is  checked: 
Then  wilfulness  is  only  violence 
Done  against  the  indifferent  nature  of  life. 
These  outland  Romans  will  not  kill  us  all 
If  you  permit  them  to  do  their  governing, 
Which  is  so  dear  to  them,  over  you  and  us. 
74 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

The  Soldier. 

Tall  maiden,  I  have  daughters  in  several  places 
I  shall  not  see  again,  and  the  thought  of  them 
Inundates  me  with  a  fatherly  feeling. 
The  aged  are  all  for  caution,  never  for  glory ; 
But  they  live  longest:  and  low  people  know 
They  need  one  voice  to  utter  their  hearts,  and  one 
To  talk  to  mighty  men  with:  women  know 
Submission  only  frees  their  natural  force: 
And  soldiers  do  not  fight  unless  they  must. 
Then  yield  and  live  in  stillness  here,  or  else 
Either  to  Hades  or  to  Rome  you  fare. 

A  silence  follows,  in  which  Nest  thrice 
raises  her  head  wearily,  as  if  she 
would  address  Widan:  the  third 
time  she  speaks. 

Nest. 

What  is  the  hour,  nurse? 

No,  do  not  speak.  I  have  no  need  to  know, 

For  all  that  I  must  do  is  to  endure. 

Is  it  dark  yet,  or  is  the  night  in  me? 

Stars  glow  and  pass  too  quickly  in  my  eyes, 

Sunsets  or  sudden  dawns  go  out  too  soon. 

All  night  a  surf-bell  tolls,  yet  none  was  there; 

Or  this  continuing  darkness  is  eternity 

Where  a  great  clock  strikes  one  each  hour  for  ever. 

Is  the  tide  rising?  Am  I  to  be  drowned? 

The  high  waves  beat  the  earth ;   they  shake  my 

limbs. 
Yet  now  they  do  not  sound,  though  I  still  throb. 


Widan. 

Your  limbs  shake?  Will  you  fall? 

75 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

Nest. 

I  can  stand  for  ever,  unless  my  dim  mind  swoons. 
But  if  I  lose  myself  you  must  buttress  me, 
Or  I  shall  tear  my  arm-strings  that  I  need 
While  I  have  life  and  Romans  tread  my  land. 


WlDAN. 

I  saved  your  clothes:  shall  I  wet  the  linen 
And  lay  it  on  your  shoulders  and  your  brow? 


The  Soldier,  pricking  Widan  with  his  spear  as 

she  is  about  to  rise. 
Granmam,  lie  down,  or  I  shall  make  a  hole  in  you 
In  a  wrong  place.    Has  not  your  tribe  been  told 
By  the  centurion,  by  the  general,  and  by  me, 
That  no  one  is  to  finger  this  felon  girl, 
Or  speak  to  her,  or  even  step  on  her  shadow, 
Until  she  has  been  assessed  and  handed  to  fate? 
I  am  loved  and  longed  for  in  every  garrison 
Between  here  and  Rome,  being  an  easy  man 
Toward  all  sizes  and  patterns  of  petticoats ; 
And  though  you  are  foodless,  coinless,  roofless 

and  shigged, 
I  am  kind  and  have  left  you  both  without  muzzle 

or  bit 
So  long  as  you  talked  comfortably  to  her, 
Dripping  good  advice  like  a  worn-out  spigot 
With  the  cask's  lees  behind  it  on  her  hard  mind: 
But  humoured  women  are  quick  to  go  too  far, 
And  now  I  see  you'll  loosen  her  ungratefully 
And  leave  me  her  shoes  to  stand  in  for  full  pay: 
So  cower  and  hush,  or  go ; 

For  when  I  must  be  strict  I  am  always  angered. 
76 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

WlDAN. 

My  bosom-piece,  my  Nestling, 
Why  would  you  light  the  bale-fires  up  again? 
When,  with  the  Queen,  the  hosts  were  overthrown 
They  accepted  shame,  they  stooped  i'  the  yoke ; 

so  now 
They  are  being  murdered  after  more  defeat, 
They  are  named  dishonoured  fighters  and  word- 
breakers. 
Call  off  the  Western  rally ;  tell  the  men 
To  get  to  their  townships  and  to  hide  their  arms ; 
Say  that  the  beacons  were  raked  up  by  witches, 
That  marsh-pooks  bore  the  brand  from  farm  to 

farm, 
And  you  may  be  let  live. 
Obey,  obey,  and  something  can  be  saved. 

Nest. 

Where  is  my  mother  the  Queen? 

Widan.  She  is  dead. 

Nest. 

Where  is  my  elder  sister,  Widan? 

Widan.  Dead. 

Nest. 

Where  is  my  younger  sister? 

Widan.  Dead.    Dead.    Dead. 

Nest. 

Then  I  am  changed;  I  have  become  a  queen, 

The  Icenian  queen,  mysterious  to  myself. 

77 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

You  must  not  lesson  or  chide  me,  or  call  me  child, 
Or  think  because  your  pap  has  nourished  me 
That  blood  like  yours  runs  in  me  untransformed; 
For  in  the  mixing  of  a  queen  and  a  king, 
And  doublv  by  the  use  of  power,  there  stirs 
A  spark  that  turns  the  substance  of  the  blood 
To  white  ethereal  fire  most  hard  to  thwart, 
Harder  to  bear,  and  yet  to  be  sustained. 
I  have  no  earthly  kin;  I  stand  alone, 
I  am  not  commensurate  with  human  things. 

The  Soldier. 

I  knew  a  woman  once.  .   .  . 

Nest. 

Obedience  is  the  duty  of  each  one, 

But  my  obedience  is  a  sterner  passion 

Than  anything  that  others  or  you  can  know. 

I  have  no  protection,  I  am  stripped  and  bared 

To  my  own  judgment  with  none  to  temper  it; 

The  torment  of  clear  vision  is  in  my  lot, 

I  must  obey  myself,  I  dare  not  flinch. 

Am  I  unjust  to  make  men  fight  and  fail? 

Injustice  is  the  essence  of  discipline, 

And  when  they  are  weary  of  failing,  weary  of  woe, 

Something  will  swell  in  them,  their  minds  will 

change, 
They  will  succeed:  let  them  but  be,  with  me, 
Determined  not  to  feel,  and  to  obey: 
Britain  is  holy  :  it  is  mine  and  theirs, 
And  we  must  keep  the  trust.  The  Western  men 
May  reach  us  before  dawn :  if  I  could  hear 
The  Western  tidings.   .   .   . 

The  Soldifr.  Once  I  knew  a  woman.    .   . 

78 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

Nest. 

Midnight  cannot  be  past:  this  is  an  hour 

Of  flittering  ghosts  and  haunting.  Tell  me,  nurse, 

Are  dead  men  free  and  potent  on  this  edge, 

Nor  earth  nor  deep,  where  no  life  can  take  hold ; 

Or  is't  the  very  shore  where  they  embark 

For  darkness?  Tell  me  quickly,  and  get  me  loosed ; 

Then  I  can  see  my  mother  before  dawn  comes, 

And  hear  her  need  and  mine.    Or  do  I  hang 

Upon  the  edge  of  sense,  and  shall  I  lose 

The  borders  of  being?    Almost  outside  my  eyes 

I  see  a  grey  thin  woman  flap  and  sway 

With  skimming  motions  like  an  alighting  bird's. 

I  cannot  move  my  head  to  follow  her. 


Widan. 

No  ghost  walks  nearer  here  than  Maiden's  Leap. 

Has  she  white  long  hair? 

Nest.  Grey  loose  hair. 


Widan. 

Mad  Ellin  wanders  so  upon  this  shore  ; 

Yet  she 's  no  ghost,  but  only  a  girl  gone  grey, 

By  day  she  sleeps,  by  night  she  wanders  so, 

Looking  at  nothing,  seeking  her  lost  mind, 

Her  dead  self. 


Nest.  It  comes  again  :  it  starts, 

Throws  up  its  head  like  a  frightened  coney  and 

checks : 
Nurse,  it  can  fly :  it  has  gone ! 
79 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

The  Second  Soldier,  outside  and  at  a  little  dis- 
tance. 

Tune  up,  you  jades  : 
You  had  better  not  sulk  when  I  speak  pleasantly. 

The  First  Girl,  also  outside. 

Kiss  me  quickly,  my  mother  is  coming,  soldier. 

A  shrill  unnatural  laugh  follows. 

Two  soldiers  enter  from  the  right  rear, 
driving  before  them,  respectively, 
three  and  tzvo  girls  with  clothing  and 
hair  torn  and  hands  bound  behind  and 
held  in  long  leashes  of  rope.  The 
First  Girl,  in  the  group  of  three, 
carries  herself  gaily  and  provoca- 
tively; the  others  are  crying  quietly. 

The  First  Soldier. 

Hoi,  Brennus,  what  have  you  there? 

The  Second  Soldier.  Forage,  forage. 

The  First  Soldier. 

Whither  away?   Are  you  for  ship-board  now; 

Or  do  you  change  the  guard? 

The  Second  Soldier. 

We  are  the  ship-board  guard; 

We  bring  up  reinforcements,  like  good  soldiers. 

Nights  are  too  long ;  we  tired  of  catching  our  fleas 

And  needed  a  nimbler  hunt. 

The  First  Soldier.  Such  soft  wrappings 

Are  not  for  fighting  men,  who  should  lie  roughly. 

80 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

Keep  one  for  me  until  my  watch  is  past ; 
You  do  not  need  the  nosegay. 

The  Third  Soldier. 

Covetousness  and  envy  among  comrades  are  sins, 
Greediness  is  a  sin,  and  lust  is  a  naughty  sin: 
Whisper  to  your  trussed  pullet  there  and  leave 
our  pickings  to  us. 

The  First  Soldier. 

Keep  the  red-haired  one  an  hour  or  two  for  me — 
The  one  with  the  jolly  face,  who  leers  at  ill  luck: 
I  have  seen  no  damsel  nearer  my  mind  or  size 
Since  last  I  went  rat-catching  on  Tiber's  bank. 


The  First  Girl. 

Hearken  to  nuncle  rambling  in  his  mind: 

He  's  an  old  man  ;  he  has  a  beard ;  he  looks  forty. 

The  First  Soldier. 

You  are  a  fine  woman  :  love  me  and  leave  me,  if 

you  like  ; 
But  do  not  undervalue  me  until  you  know  me. 

The  First  Girl. 

Aha,  nuncle,  are  you  there? 

You  are  bow-legged  ;  you  are  short  of  breath  ; 

you  creak. 
Go  in  and  pull  your  night-cap  over  your  ears, 
Bandage  your  rheumatisms,  and  mottle  your  legs 

at  the  fire  ; 
And  learn  your  times  are  over. 

81  G 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

The  Second  Soldier,  twitching  her by  her wrist- 

rope. 
Animal,  you  speak  to  a  Roman  fighting  man ; 
Be  humble  and  obliging.  And  save  your  breath ; 
You  may  be  short  of  it  later. 

Nest. 

Who  is  the  woman,  Widan? 

WlDAN. 

Birgit's  daughter  Megg. 

Nest. 

Megg,  daughter  of  Birgit,  I  have  heard. 
Britain  is  bleeding,  Britain  is  dying  to-night, 
And  waiting  for  worse  things  than  death  at  dawn  : 
The  young  men  of  our  land,  my  land  and  yours, 
Lie  out  on  frozen  mire,  dying  to-night : 
Does  one  of  them  stare  up  at  unseen  stars 
And  think  death  would  be  well  if  you  were  saved  ? 
Or  were  you  always  light  and  free  with  yourself, 
Yielding  yourself  to  a  fancy  or  a  bribe? 
Then  there  are  many  men  beneath  this  sky, 
Whose  blood  runs  out  to  enrich  the  soil  they  tilled, 
Thinking  kindly  and  gently  of  you,  and  how 
Your  body  can  multiply  such  bodies  as  theirs, 
Renewing  Britain's  sap  to  fight  again. 
But  you  are  japing  with  their  murderers, 
And  too  much  love  spills  from  your  roving  heart; 
You  love  your  enemies  and  anyone. 
Our  sacred  uplands,  this  old  reverend  tide, 
And  young  men's  agonies  thought  of  nowand  now 
Should  have  a  voice  in  you  : 
Though  trapped  and  fangless  you  can  find  sharp 
stones 

82 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

To  push  between  your  ribs,  and  then  to-night 
Lie  down  unconquered  as  your  lovers  lie. 

The  First  Girl. 

What  have  you  to  do  with  me,  to  command  me, 

To  speak  to  me,  child  of  the  evil  race? 

I  know  when  I  am  defeated :  let  me  alone. 

Shall  I  tell  my  enemy  my  heart  with  cries? 

Shall  I  waste  my  blood  as  you  waste  others'  blood? 

If  men  must  fight  for  Britain,  women  must  live 

for  Britain : 
But  your  mother  and  her  brood,  the  ruling  women, 
The  mad  fighting  fools,  who  have  poured  us  out 
In  their  pride,  in  their  high-handed  magnanimity, 
With  noble  gestures  of  their  souls,  with  priceless 

passions, 
Let  them  be  brought  to  lamentation  ; 
Let  them  discover  they  are  not  higher  beings  than 

women ; 
Let  us  be  freed  from  the  danger  of  their  great 

vision ; 
Let  them  die,  let  them  die,  ere  they  ruin  Britain 

again. 
You  Roman  dog,  snoring  upon  your  spear, 
Why  do  you  covet  my  body  when  half  the  night 
You  have  stood  untroubled  near  this  finer  corpse? 
We  are  all  dead  women,  but  still  alive  enough 
To  suffer.   And  she  is  royal :  will  that  stir  you  ? 
At  her  ;  at  her  ;  be  at  her,  and  let  her  find 
The  need  to  laugh  at  her  enemy,  and  the  light 
To  tread  our  bitter  path. 

Nest. 

Megg,  daughter  of  Birgit,  I  and  you 
Never  spoke  together  before  now, 
83 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

And  shall  no  more — so  soon  we  must  be  stilled: 

Speak  to  me  if  you  wish,  but  spare  yourself 

My  judgment  on  your  quality;  reject 

The  common,  violent,  ineffectual  things 

That  no  one  needs  to  say. 

Rain-drops  from  different  heights  fall  side  by  side : 

We  might  have  sunk  far  down  in  British  earth, 

And  turned  to  loveliness  ;  but  now  we  fall 

Into  a  vagrant,  barren,  shapeless  sea  : 

Yet  even  an  ebbing  tide  preserves  this  land, 

And  when  the  certain  flood  sets  in  again 

A  greater  wave  shall  fling  our  spirit  up, 

Our  ardours  reach  their  own,  their  aim,  at  last. 

What  I  have  done  was  done  to  serve  our  land 

And  its  inheritors,  not  to  serve  you  : 

If  your  hard,  helpless  passion  and  ill  will 

Are  for  your  country's  griefs  and  not  your  own, 

You  have  capacity,  had  you  intent, 

To  know  I  have  done  well. 

The  Second  Girl,  one  of  the  tivo  and 
puny  andyounger  than  all  the  others, 
bursts  into  more  piteous  crying  and 
stumbles  forward  to  the  length  of  her 
rope,  speaking  between  her  sobs. 


The  Second  Girl. 

Rain-drops  that  fall  ?  But  we  are  blood-drops  that 

fall: 
Britain  is  bleeding,  Britain  is  dying  to-night 
Because  you  broke  the  peace  the  Romans  gave. 
Or  if  we  live  we  must  bear  Roman  boys, 
Bastards  and  serfs,  to  fight  against  our  Britain ; 
Such  evil  mothers  as  your  mother  was 
We  must  become,  hatching  broods  to  destroy  it. 
84 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

You  have  taken  our  youth  from  us,  you  have 

taken  our  age, 
You  have  turned  a  nation  into  heaped  refuse 
To  prove  your  foresight  and  your  fortitude. 
We  lift  our  heads  above  the  settling  wrack 
And  laugh  to  see  the  ruin  crush  you  too.  .  .  . 
We  laugh.  .  .  .  We  laugh.  .  .  . 

Her  words  are  lost  in  loud  breath-catching 
sobs. 

The  Third  Girl.  Hearken,  royal  girl; 

May  your  hard  death  sound  thus  in  others'  ears. 

The  Fourth  Girl. 
Hush,  now  she  's  Queen  ! 

The  Third  Girl.  Deliver  us,  Queen! 

The  Fifth  Girl.  Shield  us! 

The  First  Soldier. 

Beaten  people  are  often  eloquent, 

Brennus ;  but  there 's  no  time  for  eloquence  here. 

Be  off  with  your  pecking  cage-birds,  for  all  this 

music 
Will  bring  the  captain  of  the  guard  upon  us: 
I  see  his  lantern.    Beside,  we  have  learnt  before 
That  a  hen-fight  never  comes  to  anything. 

The  Third  Soldier. 

True,  true,  O  man  of  wisdom. 

The  Second  Soldier. 

Come  up,  you  beauties: 
Good-night,  old  monument. 
85 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

The  First  Soldier.         Sleep  well,  my  friends. 
The  Second  and  Third  Soldiers  drive 
the  girls  forward  again  and  out  to  the 
left  rear.    There  is  a  short  silence. 

The  Second  Girl,  at  a  distance. 
Mother,  mother!  O,  no!  I  must  not  go. 
Leave  me:  I  cannot  go. 

The  Second  Soldier. 

Cut  her  down  if  she  will  not  come  quietly; 

Or  all  the  camp  will  know  we  left  our  station. 


The  Third  Soldier. 
Get  up,  baby ;  stand  up. 


Again  a  silence. 


Nest. 

Is  she  dead? 

Widan,  raising  her  head  and  peering  into  the 
darkness. 

She  is  lying  still. 

Nest. 

If  she  is  only  wounded  and  not  maimed 
She  could  be  sent  into  the  Western  hills 
To  fetch  me  tidings  of  the  Western  fight, 
That  is  a  fair  hope  yet.    Someone  must  toil 
To  the  far  hills  and  back  before  the  dawn, 
And  you  are  old  and  useless.    Go  to  her. 

Widan. 

She  jerks  all  over:  she  is  dying. 
86 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

Nest. 

I  liked  the  terms  of  her  ingratitude, 

Her  passionate  injustice  and  force  of  hate: 

She  loved  our  land  too  much  to  think  of  me. 

She  would  have  served:  'tis  pity  she  is  dead. 

Madron,  a  Briton,  an  elderly  man,  slips 
stealthily  and  swiftly  from  the  left 
front  toward  Nest,  and  begins  to  beat 
her  on  back  and  shoulders  with  a 
belt  which  he  carries  in  his  hand. 


Madron. 

If  the  Romans  kill  me  to-night 

I  have  lived  as  long  as  my  hope: 

The  blood  of  the  unjust  Queen 

Shall  pay  me  again  and  again 

For  my  discomfort  of  shame, 

For  the  town's  scorn  pointed  at  me, 

And  the  wrong  and  oppression  done 

For  her  country's  sake. 

If  this  were  the  old  Queen's  body 

I  would  kill  it  again.  .  .  . 

An  involuntary  low  exclamation  escapes 
from  Nest  at  the  first  blo-ws,  and 
she  visibly  braces  herself  to  support 
Madron's  assault  in  silence. 
Meanwhile  Widan  has  sprung  at  his 
throat  from  her  crouching  posture; 
he  goes  down  under  her,  and  she 
begins  to  strangle  him. 

Take  care,  you  are  choking  me.  .  .  . 

Princess,  Princess,  Princess, 

Call  off  your  old  wild  she-dog.  .  .  . 

Will  you  let  her  kill  me? 
87 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

The  First  Soldier,  who  has  been  nodding  on  his 

spear. 
Hey    .    .    .    How    .    .    .  Who  .    .  .  Why  .  .  . 

What — When  .  .  .  Where  from.  .   .  . 

He  advances  with  his  spear  ready. 
The  old  women  of  this  nation  fight  better  than 

the  young: 
We  ought  to  have  roped  them  too.     If  I  were  a 

marrying  man 
I  would  rather  have  the  old  cat  than  the  kitten. 
She  needs  no  help:  she's  best  let  alone. 

He  retires  and  resumes  his  guard. 

Nest. 

Let  the  man  stand  up,  Widan. 

Widan,  preoccupied. 

Hush,  hush:  leave  me  alone: 

He  will  be  quiet  soon. 

Nest. 

Let  the  man  stand  up,  I  say. 

Live  Britons,  although  rascals,  are  worth  more 

Than  Britons  dead  by  honest  British  hands. 

Widan. 

Yes,  deary;  be  patient;  I  am  too  stiff-jointed  and 

old; 
I  cannot  do  things  quickly  as  your  thoughts  do 

them; 
But  I  am  here  because  your  will  is  mine. 
I  shall  only  bind  him  carefully  lest  he  harms  you. 
As  she  speaks  she  kneels  on  Madron's 
neck  and  binds  his  hands   together 
with  the  belt  he  still  Iwlds.    Then  she 
rises  and  addresses  him. 
88 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

It  is  my  lady's  will  you  shall  stand  up: 

And  she  must  be  obeyed  ungrudgingly. 

But  if  you  hurt  her  again  I  shall  hurt  you  more. 

Nest. 

Now  who  are  you,  weak  man  who  does  by  night 
The  things  he  plans  but  dare  not  do  by  day? 
What  is  your  name?  And  are  you  of  my  race? 

Madron,  rising  with  difficulty. 
I  am  called  Madron  the  Potter. 
I  come  from  the  next  township. 

Nest. 

I  am  a  Briton  too:  are  you  my  foe? 

Why  would  you  injure  me?  Your  enemies 

Already  blemish  me  and  wound  my  heart 

In  more  unbearable  and  dreadful  ways 

Than  you  were  born  to  dream  of  or  to  do : 

May  not  these  griefs  prove  that  I  am  your  friend? 

Madron. 

What  virtue,  reward,  or  profit  is  there  now 

In  being  a  Briton?  Roman  hands  are  heavy; 

So  they  can  truly  guide,  they  can  protect. 

The  Romans  have  unlearned  your  childish  folly 

Of  fighting  for  pleasure,  for  healthfulness  or  pride; 

They  advance  their  battle  to  spread  the  Roman 

peace, 
The   Roman   order.     We    shall    live    better  as 

Romans, 
And  safe  from  your  ungovernable  kind. 
You  are  to  be  forgotten  in  quiet  years; 
But  bitterness  is  in  me  and  must  out 
For  your  hard  mother's  chill  injustice  done 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

When  I  was  beaten  on  three  market  days 
Where  the  whole  countryside  could  see  and  hear. 
I  have  prayed  that  my  intolerable  feelings 
And  impotence  to  ignore  them  might  renew 
Their  force  in  her  and  her  high  fatherless  girls: 
So  now  my  peasant  mind  and  hands  rejoice, 
Repeating  ruin  on  your  helplessness. 

Nest. 

You  mean  that  the  just  Queen  once  punished  you 

Against  some  limit  of  law,  reason  or  truth? 

Potters  were  not  often  known  to  her: 

Tell  me,  how  did  she  find  that  you  exist? 

Madron. 

I  drove  a  beast  in  milk  from  her  full  pastures 

Because  her  foraging  fighters  threatened  me 

And  took  my  only  cow. 

Yet  but  an  hour  before  I  had  believed 

I  should  give  more  and  heartily  for  her, 

Thinking  blindly  that  I  was  free  to  give. 

Nest. 

Then,  Madron,  you  were  whippedfor  being  a  thief. 

Have  you  made  me  a  thief  by  whipping  me? 

If  our  protectors'  needs  had  left  you  free 

Would  Britain  now  be  free? 

Just  blows  have  left  a  sore  place  in  your  mind, 

Which  shews  unease  of  thought  not  found  in  me. 

You  cannot  make  me  feel  your  festering  shame, 

And  if  it  comforts  and  inspirits  you 

To  hurt  me  more  than  any  Roman  can 

You  shall  cut  my  back  again,  if,  when  you  have 

done, 
You  will  this  night  act  in  one  thing  for  me 
90 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

On  which  Britain's  recovery  may  turn. 

Nurse,  loose  his  arms  ;  give  him  his  thong  again, 

And  let  him  lay  on  quickly. 

WlDAN. 

I  cannot  find  the  fastening  in  this  light. 
He  is  so  safe :  I  dare  not  loose  him  now. 

Nest. 

Disloyal,  be  my  hands  or  go  from  me. 

Widan. 

You  know  I  must  not  go. 

As  she  is  fumbling  with  Madron's  bonds, 
three  women  swathed  in  dark  blue 
cloaks  enter  from  the  right  rear. 

The  First  Woman. 
Is  this  the  spot? 

The  Second  Woman. 

Is  that  the  girl? 

The  Third  Woman.  Surely. 

The  Second  Woman. 
She  looks  taller. 

The  Third  Woman. 

She  is  stretched. 

The  First  Woman.  But  not  enough. 

They  laugh. 

The  Third  Woman. 
We  shall  hear  all  here. 
9i 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

The  Second  Woman. 

But  shall  we  see  her  face? 
When  do  they  start  on  her  again? 

The  Third  Woman.  At  dawn. 

The  Second  Woman. 

The  cold  strikes  through  my  shoes:  even  on  the 

sands 
The  rime  is  thick.    The  rime  will  settle  on  us, 
The  frost  will  reach  our  bone-pith  before  dawn 

comes. 
I  shall  have  a  stiff  stomach  for  a  week. 

The  Third  Woman. 

You  should  have  brought  two  cloaks. 

The  Second  Woman. 
My  house  is  full  of  drunken  Roman  men 
Who  throw  their  arms  around  my  empty  mead- 
vat. 

The  First  Woman. 

At  the  top  of  the  street  I  passed  a  dead  woman 

Wearing  good  clothes.    I  pared  off  her  skirt  and 

leg-cloths, 
And  donned  them  over  my  own. 

The  Third  Woman. 

We  can  keep  warm  if  we  cower  close  together. 
They  seat  themselves  on  the  earth  between 
Nest  and  the  backoftlie  scene,  hud- 
dling near  each  other  and  hunching 
their  knees  under  their  chins,  a  dark 
indistinct  mass  in  which  only  three 
pale  faces  are  clearly  visible. 
92 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

Nest. 

Where  is  he?  Does  he  fear  my  blood  at  last? 

Dullard,  begin  ;  begin. 

Madron,  released  by  Widan. 

I  have  not  seen  such  mettle  in  a  girl. 

My  lasses  are  flinchers  and  wheedlers  and  all  for 

themselves. 
Delicate  meats,  soft  clothing  and  warm  fur, 
The  eagerness  of  hunting,  and  gold  that  frees 
From  long  toil  and  subservience,  seem  to  breed 
A  generous  and  daring  freedom  of  spirit 
That  more  might  share  if  more  were  favoured  so. 
Maiden,  the  keenness  of  your  soul  can  hurt, 
Though  not  your  pride  or  state,  not  your  steeled 

mind : 
Life  is  fair  and  an  opening  wonder  in  you: 
I  will  not  touch  you ;  I  will  serve  life  in  you, 
Though  not  your  state,  if  you  will  tell  your  need. 

Nest. 

By  Arvodun  and  Meirodun  go  forth, 

Keep  on  by  Ford  of  Tain  and  the  Wood  of  Blaen, 

By  Giants'  Pound  and  Weirstone  and  the  Beacon  ; 

Look  for  my  Western  men  and  get  their  news, 

Find  if  their  battle  is  joined  and  say  to  them 

That  we  are  ruined  here  and  look  to  them. 

Madron. 

Where  will  you  be  to-morrow? 

Nest.  I  do  not  know. 

Madron. 

I'll  find  a  horse  and  come  again  with  the  dawn. 
He  turns  to  go,  then  returns. 
93 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

Give  me  your  pardon:    1   respect   your  passive 
power:  I  am  grieved  I  touched  you. 

Nest. 

Do  what  I  ask:  your  deed  will  pardon  you. 

Madron  goes  out  to  the  right,  passing  in 
front  of  The  First  Soldier,  who 
has  for  some  time  again  been  nodding 
on  his  spear. 

The  First  Woman. 

Where  will  she  be  to-morrow? 

The  Third  Woman. 

They  will  leave  the  body  here. 

The  First  Woman. 

That  man's  wise  thoughts  will  never  lead  to  acts. 
Men  are  so  full  of  sentiments;  a  flush  of  feeling 
Can  turn  them  at  a  touch  to  mistrust  or  shirk 

reason, 
Keen  and  cool  reason  chat  leads  to  irresistible 

deeds 
In  women  who  can  hate.  But  the  man  was  right : 
We  are  like  the  bees  that  are  so  poorly  bred 
They  are  neither  men  nor  women,  and  like  them 
We  fadge  us  a  queen  out  of  such  stuff  as  ourselves 
By  too  much  feeding  that  makes  hot  and  hasty 

blood, 
By  warm  cradling,  blind  respect,  and  make-be- 
lieve 
That  what  we  have  raised  above  us  is  better  than 

ourselves: 
But  we  lack  the  bees'  sense,  who,  when  they  hatch 
too  many  queen-grubs 
94 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

Kill  them  all  off  save  one.     That  might  have 
spared  this  ruin. 

The  Third  Woman. 

Better  one  than  many :  but  better  none  o'  this  kind 
than  one. 

Nest. 

Women,  who  are  ye?  What  do  ye  seek  from  me? 

The  Second  Woman. 
What  does  she  say? 

The  Third  Woman. 

She  is  asking  what  we  seek. 

The  Second  Woman. 

I  seek  my  two  sons:  would  she  pay  me  for  them? 

What  do  you  seek? 

The  Third  Woman.    I  seek  my  sick  husband: 
I  cannot  find  the  house  where  he  lay.    Has  she 
seen  it? 

The  First  Woman. 

Ye  are  burdened  with  grief  alone:   I  am  spent 

with  fear: 
Your  men  are  only  dead :  I  seek  my  daughter. 
Prayers  run  round  in  my  mind  all  night  apart 

from  me 
That  I  may  behold  her  fate  if  I  watch  the  Queen's 

daughter. 

Widan,  again  seated  at  the  feet  of  Nest. 
1  know  you:    I  know  you  now:  henceforth  you 
are  marked. 

95 


B  R  I    r   \  I  N    S     D    V  U  G  H   r  E  R 

selfish  beings        s  sue  grs    • 

•   ik  that  women  have  nose     - 
.     isses        B 
Whohaslos 

lespec    ie    silence    G  e   i tents 

A  blea    ig  do     soones     wgets     s  ca 

Second  W    '   v\ 
s 

Widan      ic  >ld  Q   een*sgo-b<  ween. 

\. 

She       is s  <      -  iter,  but  the 

g  eal  ones 

.iened  her  heart  with  DC  n   ] 
their  lea\  ings 

■    •;     nind  against  he 
p  sed      •-• 

The  First  Won 

Yousgx  ["herean    x>tsteps.  Some- 

o  ie  cc  nes 

rmRDWoi  in,      fke»  .eadtowG 

\ 

I    id  Ellin  is  the   : 

The  Second  v.    •   .  \ 

Is  she  C  night  like  this?  Then  ruin  impends. 

mssa     she's  no  ^      •.-.an.  but  a  sea-bird 
lies  to  <  ...  -     ■      i  earth-be 

- 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

From  a  following  storm  of  the  evil  force  in  dark- 
ness. 

Ellin  enters  from  the  right  rear:  her 
supple  and  flitting  motion,  slim  fig- 
ure, and  delicate  features  are  those 
of  youth,  but  her  hair,  that  falls  loose 
beyond  her  "waist,  is  grey.  A  scanty, 
grey  woollen  gown  that  reaches  to  her 
ankles,  her  hair,  and  the  cold  pallor 
of  her  features  and  bare  feet,  make 
her  seem  as  if  a  film  of  hoar  frost 
covers  her. 

Ellin,  to  herself  and  as  if  she  thinks  she  is  alone. 

Ellin  must  find  the  little  wolves 

And  dwell  with  them  in  the  farther  hills: 

There  are  live  men  everywhere  to-night 

And    she   cannot   hear   her    thoughts    for   their 

thoughts. 
They  have  frightened  the  dead  into  vanishment 
From  their  foothold  between  the  earth  and  the  sea, 
Who  will  need  no  more  to  walk  with  Ellin 
But  will  be  content  with  the  lately  dead 
And  will  dread  this  sounding  place  for  ever. 

Widan. 

Ellin,  Ellin,  why  are  you  out  to-night? 

Ellin. 

Angry  Widan,  what  are  you  doing? 

Why  are  you  always  angry  with  Ellin? 

Widan. 

Why  are  you  out  to-night? 

What  is  your  sister  doing? 

97  h 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

Ellin. 

Dilys  drove  Ellin  out  of  doors: 

She  is  left  alone  with  an  iron  man. 

Ellin  has  come  to  her  little  one 

That  once  was  a  baby  crumpled  and  warm 

Before  you  put  it  into  this  sea 

When  waves  sprang  high.  A  wild  wind  brought  it 

Back  to  her  breast  like  a  wide-winged  gull: 

It  seeks  her  here  on  the  moony  nights. 

She  aches  to  find  it  safe  to-night. 

Let  Ellin  go:  why,  why  are  you  here? 

Nest. 

Widan,  this  inhuman  happy  voice 

Which  chills  me  is  that  of  a  woman  younger  than 

I; 
And  yet  she  says  a  wicked  thing  of  you. 
What  does  she  mean?  What  can  you  know  of  her? 
Come  here,  poor  girl. 

Ellin,  noticing  Nest. 

What  is  a  girl  doing  there? 

Why  is  she  reaching  up  into  the  sky? 

Ah,  cruel  Widan,  you  have  tied  her. 

Has  she  been  naughty?  What  have  you  done? 

When  Ellin  was  naughty  you  tied  her  so. 

Nest. 

Come  here,  strange  girl. 

Ellin. 

No.    Ellin  is  afraid  of  you. 

You  smell  of  blood.    What  is  under  your  cloak? 
A  child's  crying  is   heard,  intermittent 
and  approaching. 
98 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

WlDAN. 

Obey,  Ellin:  a  divine  presence  speaks, 

A  daughter  of  our  gods  speaks  here  to  you. 

This  was  the  Princess  Nest,  and  is  now  the  Queen. 

The  Third  Woman. 

There  is  the  child  again  :  it  has  followed  us. 

The  Second  Woman. 

You  should  have  gathered  it  up  and  carried  it 

Under  your  two  warm  cloaks. 

The  Third  Woman. 

My  slack  arms  could  not  hold  it :  I  have  not  eaten 

For  a  night  and  a  day  and  a  night. 

The  First  Woman. 

Everyone  in  that  house  was  dead  but  the  child: 

What  can  we  do  with  it?  Can  we  save  ourselves? 

It  will  die  to-morrow:  it  had  better  die  to-night 

Easily  in  the  frost.    Do  not  notice  it, 

Or  it  will  come  to  us. 

Ellin. 

She  cannot  be  a  god  or  queen 

If  she  can  be  tied  up  or  whipped: 

And  if  she  had  ever  been  a  queen 

Bonds  and  defilement  of  her  blood 

Would  make  of  her  a  common  woman 

Subject  to  men  and  feared  no  more. 

At  the  beginning  of  this  speech  a  very 
young  child  is  seen  to  pass  slowly  and 
hesitantly  from  right  to  left  across 
the  back  of  the  scene,  close  to  the 
■water's  edge.  As  its  faint,  fitful  cry- 
ing comes  nearer  it  attracts  Ellin's 
attention. 

99 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

Ellin's  little  one,  Ellin's  daughter 

Seeks  her  in  the  night  of  fear; 

Wingless  and  helpless  she  returns, 

Escaping  from  the  jealous  sea-birds, 

Gently  floated  'twixt  darkness  and  tide; 

Small  enough  to  fit  the  bosom 

Of  Ellin,  with  tiny  spread  hands  that  are  fainter 

Than  wing-feathers,  breast-feathers,  neck-feathers, 
down, 

Yet  quick  and  quiet  and  fluttering  and  grown, 

And  a  creeping,  tender  voice  of  her  own. 

Lullaby-by,  a-by; 

Lull,  lull,  lull-lullaby. 

While  speaking  she  has  gone  to  the  child 
with  a  dainty,  swift,  swooping  motion, 
and  taken  it  into  her  arms.  As  she 
finishes  speaking  she  disappears  with 
it  quickly  by  the  way  she  came. 

Nest. 

What  is  this  of  a  child?   Have  you  done  dark 
things? 

Widan. 

Ellin  's  my  sister's  girl:  she  was  born  simple: 

She  conceived  a  child  unknown,  to  an  unknown 

sire, 
Dropping  it  in  the  wildwood,  nursing  it  there. 
She  fouled  the  scent  of  a  wolf  for  the  Queen's 

hunt; 
The  huntsmen  found  her  and  the  Queen  said 
If  idiots  might  breed  idiots  when  they  would 
Her  land  would  be  over-run :  the  child  must  die. 
I  pleaded  for  it,  and  she  bade  me  drown  it. 
My  kin  misjudged  me  for  my  dutifulness: 
Do  not  misjudge  me  now. 
ioo 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

The  First  Woman. 

Ay,  what  a  Queen  was  that:  the  earth  was  hers 
To  idealize,  judge,  improve  and  cut  to  waste. 
Poor  folk  and  poor  folks'  brats  have  been  to  her 
Like  maggots  in  cheese,  to  be  smeared  off  at  her 
will. 

WlDAN. 

Women,   put  by  your  grudges  and    griefs   and 

spites: 
Be  all  Icenian  till  our  country  is  free. 
The  watchman  sleeps :  help  me  to  loose  our  Queen 
And  get  her  to  the  shelter  of  a  wood, 
The  safety  of  a  cave,  where  she  can  gather 
Spent  men  and  hearten  them  again  to  conquest 
And  lead  a  force  thence  to  the  Western  men. 
Do  this,  and  I  shall  pledge  her  word  and  mine 
That  when  she  has  driven  out  the  Roman  pack 
The  nation  in  assize  shall  probe  and  judge 
Her  deeds,  her  aspirations,  and  your  wrongs, 
Before  she  shall  have  leave  to  rule  again, 
Dispose  of  lives,  or  quarrel  in  our  names. 

Nest,  shrieking  and  wailing  abruptly. 

Aia!  Aia!  Aiaha!  Nurse!  O,  nurse! 

A  bat  is  in  my  hair!  Deliver  me: 

Come  to  me:  come  quickly:  it  is  cold  and  creeps: 

It  is  wet  and  slimes  my  neck:    will  you  never 
come? 

A  shivering  moan  each  time  she  breathes 
shews  that  she  is  shaking  all  over : 
she  swings  her  hanging  locks,  throw- 
ing her  head  back  repeatedly,  drags 
at  her  bonds,  and  stamps  repeatedly 
like  a  startled  thoroughbred  horse. 

IOI 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

Widan,  starting  up. 
Yes,  child,  I  will. 

The  First  Soldier,  having  awakened  at  Nest's 
cries.        Get  down:  have  I  not  warned  you? 

Nest,  shivering  convulsively  all  the  time  she  speaks. 
Yes,  yes,  she  will  obey:  and  then,  good  Roman, 
Will  you  not  help  me  and  ease  me?  I  will  entreat 

you. 
Hasten;  now,  now:  come,  touch  me  without  awe, 
And  tear  the  bat  from  under  my  hair.   .   .  . 

Ellin  enters  from  the  right  rear  during 
Nest's  speech,  and  runs  lightly  to 
her. 

Ellin,  disentangling  something  from  Nest's  hair. 

Can  terror  shake  the  smallest  queen? 

You  are  no  more  than  a  very  tall  child 

Crying  for  fear  of  the  dark  and  its  people 

Of  wings  and  gentle  presences. 

Look:  be  ashamed  of  your  noisy  dread 

Of  this  dear  little  mouse  with  wings  who  sought 

To  sleep  all  day  beneath  your  hair 

For  love  of  your  savour  and  company.  .  .   . 

Another!  Friend  bat,  it  is  time  to  fly. 

The  Roman  general,  Placidius,  lias  en- 
tered behind  the  First  Soldier  dur- 
ing Ellis's  speech:  she  perceives  him 
at  the  last  line  but  one,  and  straight- 
way glides  out  by  the  rimy  she  came, 
launching  the  bat  in  the  air  with  a 
graceful  upward  sweep  of  her  arm  as 
she  goes. 

102 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

Placidius.  . 

What  is  this  scuffling  and  wild  crying,  sentry.'' 
Have  you  laid  hands  upon  the  prisoner, 
Against  the  order? 

The  First  Soldier,  presenting  arms. 

I  have  not  touched  her,  Sir; 
Although  she   has  encouraged  me  to  approach 

her. 
She  seems  to  be  a  maid  of  a  timorous  strain, 
Who  has  overgrown  her  strength  or  is  shaken 

with  handling; 
She  cried  aloud  for  fear  of  a  bat  in  her  hair, 
Till  a  lunatic  girl,  with  the  cunning  of  her  kind. 
Crept  past  my  guard  and  took  it  away  and  soothed 

her. 


Placidius. 

Madwomen  and  bats?  A  trick  to  rescue  her. 

Clear   this   forbidden    ground:     drive   off  these 

mourners, 
Whose  still  compassion  saps  our  stern  effect 
Upon  the  pattern  of  dishonour  here. 

WlDAN. 

Great  sir,  I  beseech  you,  # 

Let  me  stay  with  my  mistress  while  she  is  here : 

I  will  kneel  apart  and  speechless.  .  .  . 

The  First  Soldier,  striking  her  with  the  butt  of 
his  spear.  Be  off,  old  hen. 

And  you,  mother,  and  you  ;  get  up,  get  gone. 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

He  drives  away  Widan,  who  goes  out  to 
the  left  front;  then  he  attacks  the  other 
women,  and  drives  them  toward  the 
right  rear,  whence  they  eventually 
disappear. 

The  First  Woman,  as  she  goes. 

Ahoo  !  Ahoo  !  Where  can  we  go  to  now  ! 

The  Third  Woman,  as  she  goes. 

Magil,  will  you  not  wait  for  me?   Will  you  not 

help  me? 
Magil,  Magil ! 

The  Second  Woman,  approaching  and  cringing 

to  Placidius. 

Sir,  I  have  lost  my  sons  : 
Grant  me  a  little  food.    I  have  lost  two  sons, 
And  yet  I  cannot  think  of  them  or  grieve, 
Being  hungry  and  thirsty  and  hungry:  I  can  but 

smell 
Smoked   beef  and  apples  and   honey-bread  all 

night.  .  .  . 

The  First  Soldier,  beating  her  away. 
Flap  away  after  your  cletch,  and  cackle  to  them. 
She  follows  the  others  out. 

Placidius. 

Sentry,  you  are  relieved:  I  take  your  watch, 
You  are  not  trusty:  go  to  the  Queen's  High  House 
Under  arrest,  and  await  me. 

The  First  Soldier.  Now,  Sir? 

104 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

Placidius.  Now. 

The  First  Soldier  salutes  and  goes  out 
to  the  right  front. 

Nest. 

Be  just,  Placidius,  to  a  luckless  man 

Who  did  such  duty  as  he  could  conceive. 

No  cold  oppression  and  fierce  discipline 

Can  put  our  tension  and  tempered  quality 

In  slack  minds  and  blunt  nerves  of  base-born  men. 

Placidius. 

An  enemy's  compassion  hurts  him  most: 
He  shall  be  sound  again  for  the  next  battle. 
But  what  of  the  wild  Princess  and  her  fault? 
And  what  shall  heal  her  honour  but  her  knife? 
This  kingdom  you  have  won  by  hardihood 
Is  narrow,  but  your  kingdom  of  to-morrow 
Will  be  more  narrow :  beneath  your  veil  of  night 
The  frost  has  strung  cold  jewels  in  your  mane, 
But  when  the  night's  dark  mercy  is  stripped  from 

you 
More  darkness  and  more  cold  will  enter  you.  .  .  . 

Nest. 

What  do  you  wish  to  say? 

Placidius. 

This:  with  the  slow,  inevitable  dawn 
An  army  awakes  to  a  thought  of  death  for  you : 
It  will  not  be  an  easy  or  swift  death, 
And  memories  of  devotion  bring  me  now 
To  cut  your  bonds  and  lend  you  a  Roman  sword, 
If  you  have  fortitude  to  fall  on  it 
And  die  before  your  time,  your  appointed  time, 
As  many  have  died  for  you  .  .  . 
105 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

Nest.  Or  otherwise? 

Placidius. 

If  love  with  a  sharp  sword  and  hard  aspect 
Seems  worthier  to  you  than  love  once  seemed 
Muffled  in  deference,  hushed  in  a  Queen's  house, 
And  you  will  take  my  love,  it  can  be  strong 
To  arrest  you  wavering  down  the  gulf  of  death 
Like  a  torn  leaf:  you  shall  be  sent  to  Rome, 
To  kind  captivity  with  a  trusty  lady, 
Until  I  can  return  to  you  and  turn 
Your  bondage  to  a  name  .   .   . 

Nest. 

You  were  once  envoy  at  my  Mother's  court, 

And  ate  her  bread:  I  would  not  spouse  you  then, 

For  all  your  sleek  words  and  your  Roman  pride; 

So  shall  I  now  be  ready  for  that  name 

Of  Roman  wife,  when  guesthood's  holiness 

Is  desecrated,  my  clear,  reverend  blood 

Polluted  with  Latin  thongs  of  gross  beasts'  hides, 

My  naked  limbs  soiled  with  ten  thousand  eyes? 

Placidius. 

It  is  not  to  be  thought  of  that  a  slave 
From  a  defeated  and  subjected  race, 
Whose  body  is  blemished  by  the  Roman  justice, 
Could  be  a  Roman's  wife. 
I  owed  it  to  my  men 

That  in  their  sight  your  falseness  and  marred  faith 
Should  cost  you  much,  for  it  has  cost  them  much: 
Yet  when  I  heard  you  sing  aloud  for  battle, 
And  when  I  saw  you  twisting,  dumb  with  stripes, 
Your  voice  had  power  in  me,  your  silence  hurt: 
If  you  will  but  submit,  and  go  to  Rome, 
1 06 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

You  shall  not  lack  consideration  long, 
Grave  and  honourable  and  sweet  and  sure. 

Nest. 

Beings  that  can  conquer  and  rule,  I  learn  too  late, 

Are  ignorant  of  the  motions  of  man's  mind. 

When  I  am  dead 

My  cromlech,  or  charred  ash  upon  the  site 

Of  the  savage  Roman  rite  of  corpse-burning, 

Is  hallowed  for  the  offspring  of  the  soil ; 

I  shall  be  here  for  ever  in  their  minds, 

The  god-folk's  plan  of  Britain  will  lighten  there, 

I  shall  defeat  you  by  unborn  hands  in  the  end. 

Placidius. 

Nest,  will  you  die  for  a  thought? 

You  should  be  mother  to  a  fighter's  sons. 

Submit,  and  let  us  wed  in  Britain  here. 

As  he  speaks,  Nest  is  listening  with 
averted  head  as  if  to  something  far 
away;  then  she  begins  to  cry  quietly 
and  hopelessly. 

Nest,  in  the  low  voice  of  her  continuing  weeping. 
Nursy,  do  you  hear  it?  Hush,  hush  and  listen! 
It  is  there  again :  the  cubs  on  Morning  Side 
Are  wakeful  in  the  starlight,  playing  and  whining 
Before  their  earth,  the  vixen  watching  them.  .  .  . 
I  shall  never,  never  hear  them  any  more, 
Or  scent  them  in  the  down-hilt  Autumn  wind.  .  .  . 

Placidius. 

Is  exile  darker  to  her  than  slow  death  is? 

A  Young  Centurion  enters  from  the 
right  front. 
107 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

The  Centurion. 

Get  to  your  station,  sentinel;  you  misuse 
Your  duty;  you  are  here  to  prevent  speech 
With  this  fierce,  tethered  woman.  .  .  . 

Placidius.  Whom  do  you  seek? 

The  Centurion. 

Give  me  your  pardon,  Sir.    I  am  sent  to  you  : 

I  have  sought  you  at  every  outpost  with  much 

news. 
The  Western  rabble  is  captainless  and  broken, 
It  has  melted  like  earth-ramparts  in  a  flood, 
There  is  nothing  left  to  pursue.  .  .  . 

Nest.  Romans,  O  kill  me  now. 

The  Centurion. 

Tidings  of  insurrection  in  North  Gaul 

Met  face  to  face  with  these  upon  your  threshold : 

You  are  asked  for  any  troops  that  can  be  sent. 

Placidius. 

There  is  here  no  more  to  do:  five  hundred  men 
Can  garrison  this  arrogant  kingdom  now: 
Hasten,  embark  the  rest  with  the  first  light. 

The  Centurion. 

If  we  must  wait  for  daylight  a  tide  is  lost. 

The  shipmasters  advise  that  in  an  hour 

The  galleys  will  float;  in  two  the  ebb  will  come. 

Placidius. 

Then  fire  the  rest  of  the  village  for  your  torch. 

Are  any  foes  left  there? 

1 08 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

The  Centurion.  Not  fighting  men, 

But  grey-beards,  bedridden,  maimed,  idiots  and 
babes. 

Placidius. 

The  old  women  of  the  tribe  will  think  of  them. 
Choose  all  the  comeliest  of  the  younger  women, 
Herd  them  down  to  the  ships  before  the  troops, 
And  get  them  under  hatches  first:  send  men 
To  loose  this  queenling  and  ship  her  too  to  Gaul. 
I  will  come  with  you :  there  are  other  orders. 

Placidius  and  the  Centurion  go  out 
together  by  the  right  front. 

Nest. 

Britain,  dear  land,  my  land,  I  am  not  one 

To  mouth  my  passion  for  you  in  other  ears: 

I  have  not  crept  to  you  for  self  s  mean  ends, 

Base  use,  foul  warmth,  like  fleas  in  a  dog's  coat, 

Serfs  in  a  Queen's  house:  I  am  a  child 

Of  your  beneficent  spirit,  O  my  earth; 

I  have  gone  up  from  you  like  a  still  tree, 

In  soaring  contemplation  looking  down, 

At    one    with    you    by    sap    and    breath-stirred 

thoughts ; 
And  when  my  root  is  cut  I  shall  not  live. 
And  you,  O  nearer  Mother  and  my  source, 
Mabyn  and  Guenliam  my  sisters  true, 
I  have  failed  you ;  if  I  had  been  more  eager  to  die, 
More  willing  to  go  from  Britain  as  you  have  gone, 
I  might  at  least  have  slept  unconquered  here, 
I    might   have   conquered:    a   mindless,    moon- 
marred  girl 
Has  put  me  from  a  throne  in  my  own  mind, 
Shewing  me  myself  made  common  by  new  fear ; 
109 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

And  then  I  lost  my  freedom's  latest  hope: 
I  cannot  die  for  Britain  now,  nor  be 
Of  your  dread  fellowship  again;  alone, 
Alone  I  must  go  forth,  not  to  death  or  life 
But  to  a  waste  between  them,  not  to  be  borne. 
Mother  and  sisters  and  O  land,  my  land, 
Forgive  me  for  my  agony's  sake.    Farewell. 

While  Nest  is  speaking  Widan  enters 
stealth ny  from  the  left  front;  she 
moves  warily  toward  Nest,  until, 
when  Nest's  speech  is  near  its  close, 
she  is  kneeling  at  Nest's  feet,  bowing 
over  them  and  clasping  them,  her 
body  heaving  and  shaking  soundlessly . 
In  the  meantime  aruddy  glow  has  appeared 
at  the  right,  increasing  until  it  has 
become  a  deep  glare  which  illuminates 
the  shore,  the  waters  and  the  ships, 
leaving  only  the  sky  still  dark. 
A  confused,  continuous,  indistinguishable 
clamour,  in  which  women's  voices 
predominate,  is  heard.  It  grows  and 
approaches:  then  straggling  -women 
run  across  the  stage  from  the  right 
toward  the  ships,  followed  by  more 
and  more,  until  the  shore  is  almost 
covered  with  a  tossing,  shouting,  wait- 
ing crowd  of  many  women,  a  feiv  halt 
or  bandaged  men,  and  some  old 
people;  many  are  in  disordered  dress, 
many  are  in  night-clothes,  some 
are  half  dressed  with  bare  backs  or 
shoulders  gleaming  in  the  fiery  light. 
They  are  folio-wed  by  Roman  pike- 
men,  who  drive  them  forward '. 
no 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

A  Young   Soldier,   urging  onward  Ennid,  a 

woman  zvith  a  baby  in  her  arms. 
Put  down  the  child,  or  I  must  throw  it  down : 
No  woman  needs  to  carry  a  babe  to  Rome. 

Ennid. 

Sir,  let  me  take  him  with  me;  let  me  keep  him; 
He  needs  no  food  but  that  which  my  love  yields 

him. 
I  will  give  all  that  you  can  ask,  if  I  may  keep  him. 

The  Young  Soldier. 

If  you  will  lay  it  down,  it  may  well  live  ; 

If  I  must  throw  it  down  it  will  die. 

An   Old   Man,  stepping  forward  and  touching 
Ennid's  arm.  Young  mother, 

War  is  a  surging  among  blind  elements ; 
It  cannot  hear  you;  you  cannot  strive  with  it. 
Trust  me;  give  me  your  child,  and  it  shall  live, 
And  I  will  care  for  it. 

Ennid,  in  intervals  of  kissing  the  child  from  head 

to  foot.  His  name  is  Brechan  : 

Tell  him  my  name  was  Ennid,  that  I  was  young, 
And  that  I'll  walk  the  world  and  come  again. 
What  is  your  name? 

The  Old  Man.  Cadvan. 

Ennid.  My  heart  will  remember. 

To  The  Young  Soldier. 
I  will  obey  you,  sir;  let  my  mind  halt 

1 1 1 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

And  veer  to  such  an  unbelievable  thing. 

Why  must  you  hasten?    The  others  are  not  yet 

shipped. 
Let  me  give  him  his  morning  milk  before  I  go. 

The  Young  Soldier. 

If  you  can  do  it  quickly  you  may  do  it. 

Ennid  tears  her  dress  open  to  the  waist 
with  a  single  movement,  and,  putting 
her  baby  to  her  breast,  kneels  between 
the  Old  Man  and  the  Soldier,  and 
rocks  backward  and forward  slightly. 
A  Soldier  with  a  sword  elbows  his  way 
toward  Nest,  and  hacks  at  tlie  cords 
•which  bind  her  hands  to  the  post. 

WlDAN,  starting  to  her  feet. 
Her  hands!  O,  spare  her  hands. 

The  cords  are  severed:  Nest  falls  to  the 
ground  like  a  shed  garment. 
Ah,  ah,  you  have  hurt  her;  you  have  killed  her, 
you. 

She  kneels  by  the  side  of  Nest  and  raises 
her  in  Iter  arms. 
What  has  he  done  to  you,  my  heart's  first  clothing? 

The  Soldier,  pricking  Nest  with  his  sword. 
Up!  Up!  March  to  the  ships.  Stir,  or  I'll  stir  you. 

Nest,  putting   Widan   aside   and  rising  with 

difficulty. 
Nurse,  do  not  touch  me.    I  must  go  alone. 
Follow  me  if  you  can. 

112 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

She  balances  herself  uncerta  inly  an  instant, 
then  steps  forward  into  the  crowd  and 
disappears,  followed  by  Widan  and 
the  Soldier. 

As  the  crowd  drifts  out  to  the  left,  toward 
the  ships,  new  comers  pour  in  from 
the  right.  Among  them  is  an  Old 
Woman  clawing  a  Young  Woman's 
shoulder,  and  growling  like  a  dog. 
The  Young  Woman  breaks  away, 
grasping  the  bodice  of  her  dress. 

The  Old  Woman. 

Why  did  I   bear    you    for    shamelessness    and 

greed.  .  .  . 
You  have  struck  your  mother:    may  you  have 

leper's  hands.  .  .   . 
Give  me  my  shoulder-brooches.    Unbosom  them. 

The  Young  Woman. 

What  kind  of  a  mother  are  you?  You  are  done: 

You  muffle  your  withering  neck,  and  need  no 

adornments. 
Your  mother  gave  them  to  you:  it  is  my  turn, 
And  yet  you  grudge  me  all  you  can  do  for  me  now, 
When  I  must  go  to  exile  among  strange  men. 

She  makes  a  derisive  gesture  and  plunges 
into  the  crowd:  the  Old  Woman 
follows  her  with  a  cry. 

The  Young  Soldier,  to  Ennid. 
I  can  wait  no  more.  Have  done :  there  is  no  other 
way. 

Ennid. 

Must  it  be  now? 

113  1 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

She  takes  her  child  from  her  breast,  and, 
averting  herself,  holds  it  out  back- 
ward to  the  Old  Man,  -who  receives 
it. 
Take  him,  old  father;    take  him  and  hide  him 
from  me. 

She  stands  for  a  moment  with  empty,  tin- 
moving'  arms,  then  stumbles  away 
blindly  into  the  crowd. 

The  Young  Soldier  follows  her. 

Ellin  appears  on  the  prow  of  the  foremost 
ship :  the  veiling  pallor  of  her  appear- 
ance is  lost  in  the  irradiating  fire- 
glow:  the  unseen  flames  are  glassed 
in  her  wide  eyes. 

Ellin,  extending  imploring  arms. 
Ellin  dreads  this  moving  water, 
This  shifting  floor;  take  her  to  shore. 
The  souls  on  the  waters  will  cry  for  Ellin, 
To  share  her  body; 

She  wrings  her  hands. 
And  she  must  not  go  from  here, 
For  her  little  one,  her  dear, 
Has  found  its  body  again, 
And  she  has  left  it  here. 
She  has  not  learnt  to  walk  upon  water, 
Take  her  with  you,  take  her  away ; 
Or  she  cannot  sleep  with  stones  again 
And  wait  until  her  child  is  seen. 

The  light  suddenly  brightens;   she  claps 
her  hands  and  points. 
Look;  look,  what  flames 
Leap  from  men's  hearts 
As  a  nation  consumes; 

114 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

Upward  we  yearn  for  escape 

With  spiritual  limbs  of  fire, 

And  when  they  fail  with  the  flame 

Hearts'  ashes  will  whisper  to  night, 

Night  of  our  earth,  of  our  home.  .   .   . 

A  Sailor,  starting  up  behind  Ellin,  throwing  an 
arm  round  her,  and  dragging  her  backivard 
out  of  sight. 
Come  down,  white  owl,  come  down. 

Nest  steps  on  to  the  prow  in  Ellin's 

place,  gathering  her  cloak  about  her 

with  one  hand. 

The  general  uproar  takes  on   an   angry 

sound,  and  separate  cries  are  heard. 

There  is  our  enemy  ....  Betrayer ....  Wolf .... 

She  knew  how  to  save  herself  ....  she  dare  not 

stay  here  .... 
She  has  sold  us  to  the  Romans  and  shelters  with 

them  .... 
She  has  ruined  us  and  forsakes  us  .   .    .   .   She 

will  escape  us  ...  . 
Night-hag  ....  Traitress  ....  Untrue.   .   .   . 

Nest,  making  a  gesture  for  silence. 

Hear  me. 

I  have  not  a  defence  left  to  me 

Against  a  foe:  I  do  not  need  one  now: 

There  is  no  more  defeat  that  I  can  feel. 

Why  will  you  spit  in  a  dead  woman's  face, 

Affront  the  unburied,  sting  the  cold  quiet  heart, 

Gash  the  unhappy  dead?  I  go  from  you ; 

I  shall  not  more  offend  you  though  you  shew 

mercy. 
Yet  I  will  not  belittle  my  intention, 
"5 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

Or  any  deeds  of  mine.    Britain  is  lost, 

But  not  my  love  has  lost  it,  not  my  devotion : 

A  tide  of  ruin  has  come  over  us, 

And  I,  who  strung  myself  to  stand  against  it 

And  let  it  spend  itself  on  me,  have  gone 

Down  with  weak  footholdandwave-weightedhead: 

But  that  is  not  my  sin.    Hear  me  again : 

Hereafter  hear  me  in  your  memories: 

A  Sailor,  unseen. 

Laggards,  weigh,  weigh  the  anchor ;  the  flood  is 

here. 
Tune  up  and  haul  on  the  cable. 

A  sound  of  trampling  feet  follows. 


Nest,  continuing. 

When  your  new  servitude  is  heavy  and  old, 
And  you  tell  over  its  cause  and  speak  of  me, 
Say  that  I  might  have  slipt  past  misery 
By  delicate  dishonour  and  loosening  ease, 
But  that  I  went  alone  to  an  unknown  country. 
An  unknown  servitude,  an  unknown  end, 
And  that  I  once  was  Britain's  daughter:  then 
You  will  bethink  you  that  a  state  of  Britain 
Has  been  unbuilt,  that  it  had  once  been  built 
And  can  be  built  again.  Remember.  Britain.  .  .  . 
She  puts  her  hands  to  her  head,  reels,  and 
falls  backward  in  a  swoon. 

A  Second  Sailor,  singing  unseen. 
Hannibal  was  a  man  of  Carthage ; 
Chorus  of  many  Sailors,  unseen. 
Hoi!  Hoi!  Does  the  anchor  stir? 
116 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

The  Second  Sailor. 

A  town  of  towers  and  too  much  wharfage: 

Chorus. 

Hoi!  Hoi!  There  is  weed  on  her. 

Hannibal  tried  to  travel  to  Rome, 

The  heart  of  the  world,  where  all  would  come; 

But  he  never  saw  Rome,  and  he  never  saw  home. 

Hannibal!  Hannibal!  Hoihoihoi! 

Widan  crouches  on  the  deck  and  takes 
Nest  into  her  arms  during  the singing. 


The  Old  Woman,  as  Widan  raises  Nest. 
Her  royal  tricks  and  her  royal  words  again 
Will  cheat  us  if  we  listen  :  shut  your  ears, 
Britons,  shut  your  minds  until  she  too 
Does  this  duty  to  Britain  she  preaches  about 
And  rids  the  land  and  us  of  the  last  of  her  blood. 
Young  women  of  Britain,  look  on  my  miserable- 

ness 
And  all  this  ruined  place,  and  learn  by  it 
What  comes  to  a  nation  when  a  forward  daughter 
Thinksshe  was  borntomend  her  mother's  blunders. 
If  the  old  Queen  had  lived  we  should  have  won; 
Nothing  uncomfortable  would  have  happened  to 

us; 
We   should   not   now   be    sport    to    our    green 

daughters. 


The  Young  Woman,  in  the  ship  and  leaning  over 

the  side. 

That  is  my  mother :  tie  up  her  head  in  her  petticoat, 

To-night  she  has  sold  her  daughter  to  save  herself. 

We  should  do  well  enough  if  we  had  no  mothers: 

117 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

The  old  Queen  dared  the  Romans  and  dashed  us 

down, 
But  her  poor  daughter,   whose  spirit  has  here 

given  way, 
Did  what  she  could  to  save  us;  she  is  young 
And  has  her  sense  in  her  and  is  not  addled 
Bycarnalsubservienceand  chewed  fireside  wisdom. 

A  Sailor,  unseen. 
She  floats! 

Another  Sailor,    unseen. 

She  moves !  Out  with  the  starboard  sweeps ; 
And  fend  her  from  the  other  ship.    Look  out! 

A  Young  Man,  wounded  and  bandaged. 

It  is  too  true;  this  bleached  uncouraged  girl 

Was  yesterday  a  flame  that  could  deface, 

A  sudden  storm  that  could  drive  down  our  foes. 

Icenians,  it  is  hard  to  all  of  us 

To  stay  alive  to-night:  it  is  more  hard 

To  this  unpractised  Queen :  she  has  proved  herself 

Within  the  minds  oTall  who  fought  for  her, 

Yet  she  is  made  a  subject  by  strange  men, 

And  she  must  go  alone  to  be  despised, 

Even  to  become  unknown,  and  yet  to  live. 

I  say  to  her  against  your  heartless  cries 

Farewell,  queenly  and  lovely  in  my  mind, 

Farewell  and  come  again  before  old  age 

Takes  all  your  comrades  and  puts  out  the  eyes 

That  saw  you  in  your  pride:  we  are  your  kingdom. 

Daughter  of  Britain,  farewell. 

More  and  More  Men. 

Farewell !  Farewell ! 
uS 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

Nest,  raising  herself  in  Widan's  arms. 
What  voice  of  kindness  breaks  and  shortly  ceases, 
Like  music  when  a  door  is  opened  and  shut? 
Where  am  I,  nurse?    I  have  been  absent,  I 
Have  come  again  to  Britain  from  a  place 
That  did  not  know  me;  for  I  heard  but  now 
A  British  voice  again  at  last,  at  last. 
Yet  someone  said  "  Farewell.  .  .   ." 

A  Girl,  from  the  ship  and  unseen. 
The  ship  is  going !    O,  O,  O  ! 

Nest. 

Nurse,  do  not  answer  me:  I  do  remember. 

0  you,  unknown  and  nameless  and  my  friend,  ^ 
When  I  have  reached  that  place  where  no  man's 

speech 
Means  anything  and  sound  has  no  more  use, 

1  will  not  learn  their  inexpressive  words, 
I'll  break  the  inmost  kernels  of  my  ears 
To  hold  within  unmixed  your  living  voice 
That  joins  me  now  to  Britain  and  its  men, 
And  sends  me  out  in  membership  to  insults 
For  Britain's  sake,  accepted  and  secure 

On  my  dead  throne,  to  be  excused  and  loved 
As  weaklings  are,  losers  and  failures  are 
When  they  are  dead.    Farewell. 

The  Men.  Farewell! 

NEST#  Farewell, 

Dear  land,  my  land. 

The  Men  and  a  Woman. 

Farewell ! 
119 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

Nest.  Farewell! 

Nest's  galley,  which  has  been  moving 
gradually  throughout  her  speech,  dis- 
appears to  the  left  during  her  last 
words:  the  other  galley  follows  it. 

The  Men  and  Some  Women,  hurrying  off  to  the 
left  after  the  galleys.  Farewell ! 


The  Old  Woman. 

Would  the  fools  wade  to  Rome  after  the  chit? 

The  Second  Woman. 

A  shipful  of  young  women  is  sure  to  draw 

Men  after  it :  but  this  is  a  welcome  ship, 

Relieving  us  of  all  the  pushing  things 

Who  have  grown  up  too  quickly  and  jostled  us. 

Follow  the  men  to  the  Ness:  when  the  ship  has 

gone 
And  they  feel  lonely  they  will  take  our  comfort. 

The  First  Woman. 

Call  out  "  Farewell,  farewell  "  ;  it  will  please  the 
men. 


The    Remaining    Women,     mechanically    and 
meaninglessly  as  they  run  out  in  the  wake  of 
the  men. 
Farewell,  farewell,  farewell. 

As  the  stage  empties  Cadyan  is  seen  to 
be  co7veringat  the  foot  of  the  mooring- 
post  with  ENNID'S  baby  in  his  arms. 

120 


BRITAIN'S     DAUGHTER 

Cadvan. 

There  is  no  conqueror  except  the  earth  : 

The  Roman  lords  will  stay  too  long  in  britain, 

Whose  water  and  inbreathed  air  and  soil-borne 

fruit  .  ,      , 

Shall  in  the  darkness  of  their  inwards  change 
Their  secret  seed  into  such  British  sparks 
A.s  those  that  spread  a  running  fire  in  ling: 
Not  Rome  but  Britain  shall  be  strong  by  them. 
It  will  be  so  :  but  what  is  that  to  me? 
To-night  my  sinking  helpless  country  lies 
In  the& cold  ruins  of  its  shrunken  past, 
As  in  the  trembling  arms  and  shrivelled  breast 
Of  an  old  failing  man  a  little  child 
Lies  ignorantly  and  blindly  feels  for  dugs 
That  do  not  nourish  it. 
The  little  child,  restless  within  my  breast, 
I  cannot  nourish  yet  or  much  protect ; 
I  am  a  houseless  wifeless  aged  man ; 
When  men  must  save  themselves  I  can  do  little; 
I  can  but  sit,  although  the  child  may  die, 
And  wait  for  pity  and  help,  and  if  it  weeps 
Whimper  with  it  amid  this  night  of  woe 
For  Britain  that  is  like  a  friendless  child. 

He  bows  himself  over  the  child  and  sobs 
in  a  high  quavering  voice  like  an  old 


woman  s. 


Curtain 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

KING  LEAR'S  WIFE  and  other  plays. 
1920.  4to.  With  binding  design  by  Charles 
Ricketts.    Pp.  209.    \%s.  net. 

A  special  edition  of  50  copies  signed  by  the 
author,  in  white  and  gold  binding.  31^.  6d. 
net.    (Very  few  remain.) 

SOME  PRESS  OPINIONS 

Mr.  Lascelles  Abercrombie  (Lecturer  in  Poetry  at  the 
University  of  Liverpool)  in  The  Liverpool  Daily 
Post  and  Mercury. 

This  volume  has  been  long"  overdue.  It  was  the  great  good 
fortune  of  "  Georgian  Poetry  "  that  it  was  permitted  to  give 
this  remarkable  tragedy  of  "  King  Lear's  Wife  "  to  the  world, 
and  thus  to  have  the  privilege  of  pioneering  Mr.  Bottomley's 
reputation  among  those  who  are  unable  to  do  much  experi- 
mental reading.  It  was  obviously  not  only  a  dramatic  poem 
but  an  actable  play;  so  actable,  indeed,  that  it  had  the  extra- 
ordinary fortune  of  being  acted ;  and  what  was  perhaps  even 
more  remarkable  of  a  poetic  play  nowadays,  it  showed  itself 
capable  of  being  acted  precisely  and  entirely  as  it  had  been 
written,  the  technique  of  the  poet  contriving  to  be,  with  a 
completeness  not  to  be  paralleled  anywhere  to-day  except  in 
Italy,  simultaneously  the  technique  of  the  playwright. 

The  other  plays  contained  in  this  volume  are  still  to  be  staged. 
They  would  certainly  be  not  less  effective  than  "King  Lear's 
Wife"  .  .  .  the  cunning  elaboration  of  supernaturalism  in  "The 
Crier  by  Night  "  and  "The  Riding  to  Lithend,"  its  combination 
in  the  former  with  the  elemental  humanities,  in  the  latter  with 
vivid  characterand  strangely  heroic  passion  ;  the  deft  lucidity  of 
"  Laodice  and  Danae,"  which  might  serve  as  a  type  of  dramatic 
suspense  passing  at  the  exact  moment  into  inevitable  catas- 
trophe: these  things,  one  would  think,  should  be  eminently 
practical  politics  for  the  theatre.    If  any  manager  wants  plays 

1 2;: 


SOME     PRESS     OPINIONS 

in  which  exciting-  action  is  at  the  same  time  profound  signifi- 
cance, here  they  are. 

However,  we  are  only  able  to  speculate  on  this  aspect  of 
Mr.  Bottomley's  work.  But  we  can  console  ourselves  by  simply 
reading  the  plays  as  poetry.  ...  In  the  days  when  theurgy  was 
still  an  honourable  profession,  Apollonius  of  Tyana'  said 
"  Knowing  what  people  say  is  nothing;  I  know  what  people 
don't  say."  That  might  be  put  as  motto  for  such  poetry  as 
Mr.  Bottomley  writes.  It  is  the  art  of  exhibiting  realities. 
What  people  don't  say  is  what  they  really  are ;  and  they  don't 
say  it  because  they  can't  get  hold  of  it.  But  he  can,  and  he  can 
make  them  say  it  .  .  .  they  speak  and  act  as  unconstrainedly 
as  the  folk  of  the  everyday  world;  yet  even-  word  and  every 
gesture  is  a  flashing  revelation  of  spiritual  destiny.  And  not  only 
men  and  women,  but  nature  also:  tarns  and  mountains,  winds 
and  the  night,  trees  and  stars — of  these,  too,  Mr.  Bottomley 
"  knows  what  they  don't  say." 

To  the  technical  beauty  of  Mr.  Bottomley' s  poetry  I  have  not 
alluded.  It  is  extraordinary ;  but,  as  in  all  great  poetry,  it  is 
no  more  than  the  sign  that  the  reality  of  things  is  being 
successfully  exhibited. 

Mr.  John  Drinkwater  in  "The  Nature  of  Drama" 
("Prose  Papers":  London,  Elkin  Mathews,  1917, 
p.  220). 

I  do  say  that  the  capital  power  of  the  commercialised  theatre 
in  England  to-day  is  so  great  that  it  has  been  able  to  impose 
its  standard  on  nearly  all  the  people  who  are  habitually  in  con- 
tact with  its  merchandise  ...  so  that  one  piece  of  catchpenny 
insincerity  after  another  is  extolled  by  what  passes  for  expert 
opinion  as  a  valuable  contribution  to  the  great  art  of  the 
dramatist,  while  a  piece  of  work  like  Mr.  Gordon  Bottomley's 
"  King  Lear's  Wife,"  which  .  .  .  is  for  vigour  of  imagination, 
poetic  eagerness,  and  dramatic  passion  not  to  be  excelled  by 
anything  that  has  been  put  on  to  the  English  stage  since  the 
Elizabethans,  is  met  with  a  clamour  of  ignorance  ...  in  most 
cases  (1915-16)  we  find  no  standard  whatever  being  brought  to 
the  judgment  of  an  original  work  of  art  other  than  a  spurious 
morality. 

Solomon  Eagle  in  The  Outlook. 

The  various  societies  which  desire  to  regenerate  the  theatre 

talk  a  good  deal  about  the  poetic  drama  of  the  future,  but 

they  do  not  seem    to  take  much  trouble    to    find  it.   .   .   .   Of 

Mr.  Gordon  Bottomley's  fine  plays  only  one,  to  the  best  of  my 

124 


SOME     PRESS     OPINIONS 

knowledge,  has  yet  been  produced  in  this  country.  .  .  .  There 
is  certainly  the  possibility  of  a  great  play  in  their  author,  and 
one  at  least  of  them  is  better  than  any  play  in  verse  which  has 
been  staged  for  many  years,  and  is  likely  to  live  longer  than 
most  of  the  so-called  masterpieces  of  our  time.  If  "  Midsummer 
Eve"  had  been  by  Claudel,  or  "The  Riding  to  Lithend"  by 
some  German  (a  most  unlikely  supposition)  all  the  coteries 
would  have  been  talking  about  them  years  ago.  .   .  . 

"  Midsummer  Eve  "  is  original,  and  the  work  of  a  poet.  .  .  . 
There  is  fine  meditative  poetry  in  it,  poetry,  moreover,  not 
grafted  or  glued  on  to  its  main  structure,  but  growing  out  of 
the  dialogue  naturally,  in  an  inevitable  manner.  ..."  Laodice 
and  Danae  "  is  equally  good  reading,  and  it  is  dramatic.  But 
none  of  these  plays  is  equal  to  the  two  latest,  "  The  Riding  to 
Lithend"  and  "  King  Lear's  Wife."  .  .   . 

Enough  has  been  written  about  the  grimness  of  < '  King  Lear's 
Wife,"  the  fine  bursts  of  poetry  in  it,  and  the  remarkable 
character  of  Goneril.  .  .  .  "  The  Riding  to  Lithend"  is,  up  to 
the  present,  the  best  of  Mr.  Bottomley's  plays;  and  its  superi- 
ority is  a  superiority  which,  I  think,  would  be  still  more  evident 
on  the  stage  than  it  is  in  print.  ...  It  comes  straight  out  of  an 
old  tale ;  the  characters  are  recreated  and  enriched.  .  .  .  The 
diction  is,  as  a  rule,  perfect  in  its  propriety  and  often  striking  in 
its  beauty.  And,  above  all,  Gunnar  is  a  hero,  his  fight  a  heroic 
fight,  his  courage,  his  generosity,  his  humanity  (a  few  sentences 
to  wife  and  hound  are  wonderfully  chosen),  and  even  his 
weaknesses  are  such  as  to  move  the  heart.  His  fall  is  like  the 
fall  of  all  noble  and  fighting  things;  the  sense  of  defeat  comes 
with  it,  but  above  that  a  feeling  of  exultation.  On  the  stage  the 
end,  I  fancy,  would  be  profoundly  moving,  and  the  fight  excit- 
ing to  a  degree,  though  there  is  no  obvious  rhodomontade 
about  it. 

Mr.  John  Freeman  in  The  Bookman. 

This  comely  volume  at  last  makes  public  what  has  been  too 
long  a  fugitive  and  cloistered  pleasure.  .  .  .  These  five  plays 
show  the  author  in  the  most  powerful  exercise  of  his  faculties. 
Imagination  here  is  free  and  moves  with  growing  ease,  music 
enlarges  like  a  splendid  wind  through  the  verse  ;  and  the 
common  reproach  of  mere  "poetic  plays"  has  been  avoided  in 
these,  where  character  and  action  develope  as  surely  as  music 
itself.  Gordon  Bottomley  has  remembered  that  his  plays  can 
have  no  life  except  in  the  activity  of  his  characters.  .  .  .  Fine 
careless  raptures  alone  will  not  produce  a  play  like  "The 
Riding  to  Lithend  "...  you  may  quote  almost  any  lines  from 
this  fierce  Icelandic  play  and  find  that  what  you  are  reading  is 

125 


SOME     PRESS     OPINIONS 

vital  and  essential  to  the  expression  of  character  and  action. 
And  in  this  poetry,  too  ...  the  beautiful  images  flow 
out  with  the  ease  of  light  on  water;  the  rhythms  have  the 
natural  movement  of  thought,  and  the  secret  discipline  of 
masculine  habit.  "King  Lear's  Wife"  will  be  familiar  to  main- 
readers,  but  to  others  it  will  come  with  the  delicious  shock  of 
a  oew  creation.  .  .  .  The  new  play  is  a  beam  of  light  crossing 
the  darkness  of  the  old.  Few  passages  of  modern  verse  reach 
the  beaut}-  of  Goneril's  hunting-narration;  and  it  is  no  isolated 
beauty. 

Mr.  William  Rose  Benet  in  The   Literary  Review  of 
the  New  York  Evening  Post. 

"The  Crier  by  Xight"  is  one  of  the  most  powerful  and  eerie 
poetic  dramas  of  the  supernatural  that  have  been  written  in 
the  last  two  decades.  To  me  the  best-known  translations  of 
Maeterlinck  pale  beside  it.  .  .  .  I  hold  "The  Riding  to  Lithend" 
his  greatest  achievement.  To  me  it  is  like  a  piece  of  gorgeous 
stry  blurred  by  wood-smoke  and  sea-mist  and  hung  on  a 
granite  wall.  The  dramatic  structure  is  knit  as  compact  as  a 
rock.  Across  the  shimmering  imagery  of  the  diction  bit 
chili  and  foreboding  wind  of  the  spirit.*.  .  .  The  verse  is  noblv 
distinguished.  "  King  Lear's  Wife  "  is  also  a  notable  piece  of 
work.  ...  It  possesses  convincing  reality.  .  .  .  Again  the 
dramatic  structure  satisfies  completely.  "  Midsummer  Eve  "  is 
packed  with  fragrant  beauty  .  .  .  that  creeps  around  the 
heart.  .  .  .  The  atmosphere  is  the  important  thing  about  this 
play  and  is  unforgettable.  "  Laodice  and  Danae  "  is  more  usual 
(for  Bottomley,  for  very  few  other  writers),  but  it  is  the 
work  of  a  sure  dramatic  craftsman  with  an  enthralling  tale  to 
tell.  .  .  .  There  is  a  splendid  artistic  austerity  about  his  work 
.  .  .  yet  mixed  with  this  there  is  an  entirely  full-blooded  love 
of  the  earth,  a  delight  in  intensely  human  detail.  .  .  .  He  has 
indeed  displayed  many  gifts  imperishably  bright.  His  name 
should  stand  high  in  the  roster  of"  modern  English  verse. 

The  Morning  Post. 

The  rare  beauty  and  distinction  of  these  works  have  been  un- 
grudgingly acclaimed  by  many  critics,  but  they  have  hitherto 
:  that  wider  recognition  for  which  they  are  indubitably- 
destined.  .  .  .  But  now  the  bringing  of  them  together  in 
one  volume  permits  us  all  to  appraise  the  quality  of  what  is  the 
most  significant  accomplishment  of  our  Georgians.  It  is  impos- 
sible to  be  impervious  to  the  strength  and  beauty,  knit  together, 
of  these  dramas.  .  .  .  Criticism  mav  note  with  admiration  the 
126 


SOME     PRESS     OPINIONS 

unerring  skill  of  dramatic  structure  ;  with  delight  the  mastery 
of  language,  which  constrains  the  simplest  words  to  the  greatest 
needs;  with  wonder  the  reading  of  the  human  heart.  .  .  .  The 
man  who  can  handle  character  and  emotion  with  such  mastery 
both  of  language  and  imagination  is  indeed  a  poet.  .  .  . 
In  Mr.  Bottomley  the  Georgian  era  has  found  an  authentic 
voice — a  veritable  interpreter. 

The  Times  Literary  Supplement. 

We  must  honour  the  devoted  writers  who  keep  alive  the 
desire  for  the  poetic  drama,  and  none  more  than  Mr.  Gordon 
Bottomley.  ...  He  is  a  poet  and  justifies  his  use  of  poetic 
speech  ;  he  is  eloquent,  incisive,  has  a  blank  verse  of  his  own 
which  he  writes  with  increasing  mastery.  .  .  .  In  "  The  Riding 
to  Lithend  "  he  rises  with  his  story.  .  .  .  the  death  of  Gunnar 
is  well  done;  you  read  it  breathlessly,  for  he  makes  it  the  death 
of  Gunnar  indeed ;  and  even  the  slayers  feel  the  greatness  of 
it.  Mr.  Bottomley,  in  a  more  fortunate  age,  might,  we  think, 
have  been  a  dramatic  poet  like  Fletcher;  he  has  Fletcher's 
eloquence  though  not  his  fun,  .  .  .  but  not,  of  course,  Fletcher's 
familiarity  with  the  stage.  ...  If  he  had  been  bred  in  the 
theatre,  he  might,  we  think,  have  had  Fletcher's  real  and 
delightful  success. 

John  <9'  London's  Weekly. 

The  cumulative  effect  of  a  re-reading  of  Mr.  Bottomley's 
work  is  to  convince  one  that  he  is  a  real  poet  who  can  write 
real  drama.  In  the  matter  of  construction  these  plays  approach 
perfection ;  the  building  up  is  masterly,  and  the  verse  is  full  of 
variety  and  imagination.  .  .  .  The  finest  as  drama  is  "King 
Lear's  Wife,"  though  for  sheer  beauty  and  spiritual  significance 
I  should  be  inclined  to  place  "Midsummer  Eve"  first.  Only 
one  of  these  plays  has  been  acted  in  England.  If  we  had  a  live 
stage  they  would  all  be  acted. 

The  New  Statesman. 

Mr.  Gordon  Bottomley's  plays  are  good  art.  There  are 
moments  in  "King  Lear's  Wife"  when  he  approaches  great- 
ness. ...  It  contains  passages  of  very  rare  force,  and  the 
dramatic  power  .  .  .  is  of  a  very  high  quality.  In  this  play 
and  in  "  The  Crier  by  Night  "  he  recalls  to  us  not  the  late 
Elizabethans  so  much  as  that  strange  uneasy  genius  Thomas 
Lovell  Beddoes.  .  .  .  He  is  a  purer  poet,  dramatically,  than 
was  Beddoes,  and  his  song  has  a  clearer  richer  quality,  more 
I27 


SOME     PRESS     OPINMONS 

imaginative,  though  not  quite  so  fantastic ;  but  he  resembles 
Beddoes  in  his  stern  saddened  preoccupations  with  the  passing 
of  mortals.  Few  plays  have  a  greater  unity  of  atmosphere  or 
a  more  boding  one  than  has  "  The  Riding  to  Lithend."  In  all 
the  plays,  however,  one  finds  a  real  poet  who  is  also  a  real 
dramatist ;  there  is  little  of  decoration  in  any  of  the  plays,  and 
nothing  of  that  windy  seasonal  rhetoric  which  is  so  common  in 
some  poetic  plays. 


I.  B.  in  The  Manchester  Guardian. 

It  is  an  excellent  thing  that  these  plays,  the  earliest  of  which 
was  published  twenty  years  ago,  should  have  been  brought 
together  and  given  a  new  lease  of  public  life.  ...  It  is  indeed 
quite  extraordinary  that,  with  so  much  publishing  of  poetry 
during  the  last  few  years,  work  of  such  high  distinction  should 
have  remained  under  cover.  Mr.  Gordon  Bottomley's  art  of 
tragedy,  as  well  as  his  craftsmanship  in  verse,  can  be  seen 
ripening  through  this  series  until  it  comes  to  a  rich  maturity  in 
"  King  Lear's  Wife."  Here  .  .  .  austerity  and  compassion  are 
compounded,  and  so  create  the  tragic  atmosphere  in  which 
small  words  are  big  with  infinite  meaning  and  hints  develope 
the  power  of  hammer-blows.  ...  It  is  the  best  of  the  group, 
and  it  is  significant,  as  showing  the  inherent  union  between 
matter  and  form,  that  when  the  poet  writes  his  best  play  he 
also  writes  his  best  verse.  .  .  .  He  is  admirably  master  of 
himself  and  of  his  medium. 

The  Spectator. 

Neither  in  the  setting  of  the  scene  of  "  King  Lear's  Wife," 
the  conduct  of  the  story,  or  its  embellishment  and  illustration, 
is  there  a  wasted  word.  .  .  .  But  amid  the  abundance  of  this 
most  rich,  most  ample  of  little  plays,  there  is  surely  nothing — 
nothing,  we  mean,  that  can  be  detached  from  its  setting — that 
surpasses  Gonerils  two  speeches  to  her  mother.  .  .  .  Whether 
Mr.  Gordon  Bottomley — though  calling  his  creations  by  their 
Shakespearean  names  in  his  heart — would  not  have  done  better 
to  call  his  monarch  Cole  or  Cadwallader  in  print  is  a  question 
with  which  controversy  will  probably  long  be  busy.  It  is  a  play 
which  would  not  be  spoiled  if,  in  a  pet,  he  had  called  the  pro- 
tagonists Smith,  Jones,  and  Robinson.  We  recommend  this 
test,  by  the  way,  to  those  who  are  called  upon  to  pronounce 
judgment  upon  the  poetic  drama.  There  is  more  in  it  than 
meets  the  eye. 

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SOME     PRESS     OPINIONS 

The  London  Mercury. 

It  is  some  years  since  the  public  was  surprised  to  learn  that 
Mr.  Gordon  Bottomley  had  written  a  prelude  to  "  King  Lear," 
which  not  only  offered  some  solution  of  the  problems  of  that 
work,  but  was  also  in  itself  a  plav  of  considerable  beauty, 
originality,  and  power.  This  piece  now  serves  for  the  title  of  a 
volume  of  collected  plays.  .  .  .  It  was  effective  and  moving  on 
the  stage,  and  it  makes  its  effect,  though  perhaps  a  different 
one,  when  it  is  read  in  the  study.  ...  An  extract  will  serve  to 
illustrate  the  flexible,  elastic,  and  individual  versification.  We 
should  do  wrong,  however,  if  we  were  to  give  the  impression 
that  his  plays  are  only  for  the  study,  valuable  for  such  passages, 
and  lacking  m  the  harder  bones  of  dramatic  merit.  The  action 
is  not  an  excuse  for  decorative  poetry,  but  is  the  immediate  and 
all-important  thing.  .  .  .  These  are  the  creations  of  a  dramatist 
who  has  no  need  of  descriptive  decoration  to  conceal  the  weak- 
ness of  his  prime  conceptions. 

The  Nation. 

The  wave  of  poetic  drama  has  now  ebbed,  and  this  form  is 
practised  very  little  to-day,  lyrical  and  experimental  verse 
having  almost  entirely  supplanted  it.  Mr.  Bottomley's  plays 
are  the  only  ones  which,  with  the  going-out  of  the  tide,  have 
managed  to  escape  its  "  long  withdrawing  roar  "  and  retain  a 
place  on  the  shore.  .  .  .  Without  any  doubt  they  express  a 
singular  power  of  mysterious  evocation.  .  .  .  They  are  not  at 
all  vague  and  inchoate— on  the  contrary-,  these  towerine 
shadows  are  remarkably  and  firmlv  differentiated.  .  .  .  We  find 
"The  Crier  by  Night  "  and  "  TheRidingto  Lithend  "-especi- 
a  y  the  former— the  most  darkly  and  magically  impressive  of 
all  the  plays.  ...  An  image  in  the  former  positively  makes 
you  jump  as  Donne  makes  you  jump  with  his  imagery.  .  .  . 
But  perhaps  his  most  striking  achievement  is  the  way  he  can 
make  these  shapes  of  an  intensely  brooding  .  .  .  imagination 
speak  out  in  taut,  muscular,  even  gruffly  vivid  language.  He 
has  avoided,  and  very  properly  avoided,  the  tenuous  chantings, 
effeminate  imagery,  and  listless  monochrome  of  the  Celtic  drama. 
Mr.  Bottomley's  plays,  in  fact,  are  peculiar  and  esoteric,  but 
they  undoubtedly  achieve  a  strong  success  in  their  own 
character. 

The  Athenceum. 

Mr.  Gordon  Bottomley  is  one  of  the  few  writers  of  poetical 
plays  whom  it  is  necessary  to  take  very  seriously :  his  blemishes 
I29  K 


SOME     PRESS     OPINIONS 

are  minor  and  few  in  number;  his  poetical  qualities  very  much 
outweigh  his  defects.  He  is  at  his  best  in  expressing  subtle 
states  of  mind,  and  in  formulating  generalizations.  His  real 
distinction  lies  in  his  dramatic  power.  His  characters  have 
solidity  and  life  .  .  .  they  are  not  mere  symbols,  but  human 
beings.  His  plays  are  marked  by  the  economy  of  construction 
of  stage  plays.  It  is  significant  to  note  that  Mr.  Bottomley's 
pieces  are  excellent  in  proportion  as  they  are  actable. 

The  Saturday  Westminster  Gazette. 

Of  their  kind,  Mr.  Bottomley's  plays  are  remarkably  good. 
They  have  atmosphere  and  action ;  they  are  exquisitely 
wrought ;  they  are  moving  and  dramatic.  They  will  surely  be 
among  the  most  delightful  discoveries  of  future  generations  ; 
and  if  by  the  beginning  of  the  twenty-first  century  our  successors 
have  contrived  to  establish  a  national  or  folk  theatre,  it  is  fairly 
safe  to  prophesy  that  three  at  least  of  them  will  find  a  place  in 
its  repertory. 

The  Observer. 

Since  the  issue  of  "The  Crier  by  Night  "  in  1902,  Mr.  Bottom- 
ley  has  worked  with  a  sincerity  and  devotion  which  are  more 
commendable  than  themorefrequent  essays  of  lessconscientious 
artists.  We  remember  one  considerable  and  beautifully  pro- 
duced book  of  miscellaneous  verse,  "The  Gate  of  Smaragdus," 
and  there  have  been  other  plays  issued  semi-privately,  until  the 
publication  of  "King  Lear's  Wife"  gave  him  a  wider  public, 
and  reminded  younger  readers  of  his  very  definite  and  dignified 
talent.  .  .  .  If  as  a  tour  de  force,  the  latter  is  the  greatest,  we 
still  prefer,  for  sheer  poetic  beauty,  for  propriety  of  phrase  and 
for  directness  of  action,  the  earlier  "  Riding  to  Lithend."  Hall- 
gerd  is  an  exceptionally  fine  creation,  and  she  is  given  to  speak 
passages  of  rare  force  and  beauty.  This  play,  too,  has  a  fierce 
dramatic  quality. 

Mr.  R.  Ellis  Roberts  in  The  Daily  ATews. 

Mr.  Bottomley's  plays  have  all  one  merit  without  which 
poetical  drama  is  a  thing  indefensible.  There  is  always  in  them 
a  definite  note  of  necessity.  .  .  .  Not  only  does  Mr.  Bottomley 
choose  subjects  which  make  his  decision  to  write  in  verse  seem 
natural  and  right,  he  writes  blank  verse  of  a  dignity  and  worth 
which  responds  at  once  to  the  needs  of  natural,  and  the  con- 
vention of  poetic,  speech.  His  poetry  is  in  the  full  English 
tradition;  he  enjoys  his  vocabulary  with  that  careful,  inventive 
joy  which  is  the  privilege  of  all  who  are  sensitive  to  the  individual 
130 


SOME     PRESS     OPINIONS 

word.  He  can  use  rhetoric  ;  but  he  rarely  allows  himself  to  be 
drawn  away  into  mere  hectic  luxury  of  language.  The  best  of 
his  plays  is,  I  think,  "  The  Riding  to  Lithend,"  a  rendering  of 
the  old  life  of  Iceland,  which  really  represents  for  us  the 
passionate,  hasty  life  of  the  old  Sagas,  while  it  is  free  from 
the  pedantry  which  spoils  so  many  efforts  to  reproduce  Scandi- 
navian heroics.  Hallgerd  is  a  genuine  piece  of  dramatic 
creation.  "Midsummer  Eve,"  with  its  quiet,  wind-blown  pathos, 
is  equally  notable;  and  the  quality  of  its  verse  shows  Mr. 
bottomley  s  talent  at  its  highest  and  simplest. 

The  Actor. 

In  these  plays,  the  public  is  reminded  of  Mr.  Gordon  Bottom- 
ley  s  almost  unique  power,  as  among  his  contemporaries,  of 
presenting  the  sinister,  the  grim,  the  tragic,  or  the  merely 
weird,  in  a  poetic  garment  of  power  and  beauty  ...  in  dramatic 
force  and  verse  charm. 

The  Journal  of  Commerce,  Chicago,  U.S.A. 

These  plays  are  put  into  a  format  and  style  of  book  that 
honour  the  contents,  and  when  you  know  the  contents  of  this 
remarkable  dramatic  poetry  that  is  praise  indeed.  They  hold 
you  strangely.  ...  The  dialogue  is  skilfully  modulated,  it  is  a 
veritable  song-speech,  illuminated  by  luminous  pauses,  by  the 
speaking  silences  that  can  invest,  if  rightly  used,  the  static  with 
so  much  more  dramatic  feeling  than  the  more  obviously 
emotional  action.  The  plays  are  impressive  even  in  the  reading 
ot  them,  then  how  much  more  effective  they  would  be  if  acted 
and  declaimed— but  in  a  manner  worthy  of  their  high  art 


PRINTED  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN. 

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